


Reverse Psychology

by tempestbreak



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (the most important tag of the fic), Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom Keith (Voltron), But also, Canon Compliant, Depressed Lance (Voltron), Discussions of Suicidal Ideation - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Hung Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Love Triangles, M/M, One-Sided Sheith - Freeform, Post-Canon, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scorpio King Keith (Voltron), Sex Toys, Slow Burn, Spanking, Switching, Top Lance (Voltron), Unrequited Love, basically keith is in love with shiro, i.e. they talk about when keith almost let himself die a couple times, lance is grieving allura, mentions of past keith/kuron, neither of them is suicidal though, past allurance, post-season 8, sex-wise this is primarily, they bond over shared heartache and beers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 100,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestbreak/pseuds/tempestbreak
Summary: Before he knows it, he and Lance have overstayed their welcome at the afterparty bar, too, and Lance says, “I’d invite you up to my room, but I’m pretty sure Hunk is passed out right now,” and before Keith can second-guess it, he says, “I have beer in mine, if you still want to catch up.”Which is weird. Since when do he and Lancecatch up? Keith has no idea. He also has no idea what they’ve been talking about, other than anything and everything that’s not Shiro and the fact that he’s marrying someone who isn’t—Fuck.--Or: After Allura's death and Shiro's wedding, Keith and Lance inadvertently teach each other how to love again.
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 437
Kudos: 636





	1. Listens Like Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpio_pit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpio_pit/gifts).



> this fic, as so many fics are, is a product of wanting desperately to read a fic exactly like this and being unable to find one. by that i mean that this fic doesn’t adhere to a lot of the typical klance fanon. neither keith nor lance has _always been in love_ with the other; their lives did not revolve around each other; they in fact were both deeply in love with different people and had very different, albeit overlapping, experiences of voltron and the war. most importantly, **keith is in love with shiro for most of this fic**. it is still firmly a klance fic and will have a klance ending, but keith (voltron) is EXTREMELY bad at feelings for the vast majority of the wordcount. (and check the end notes for a brief spoiler vis-a-vis the "mentions of past keith/kuron" tag.)
> 
> this fic is about keith and lance learning to see each other in a new light and to lean on each other as more than just comrades, healing together from shared heartbreak and grief, and falling in love organically through that, because i thought it would be interesting to explore them having this kind of post-canon relationship. i also think the idea of keith being in love with shiro at first and then learning to appreciate/love lance in spite of (or even _because of_ ) that is really interesting. if that's not something you're interested in reading, please simply hit that back button.
> 
> final note: this fic is for my good buddy laser as a combo birthday and wedding present! thanks for being you, scorpio king. <3

The world ends on Shiro’s wedding day.

That’s Keith’s estimation, anyway, after pre-reception shots, a champagne toast during picture-taking, and far, far too many beers from the open bar. Most of which he is surprised to be sharing with a slouchy, bright-eyed, almost ostentatiously drunk Lance.

This Lance seems fascinated by everything Keith has to say about space these days, and Keith is willing to indulge him because a) it has been ages since he’s seen any of the former Paladins and b) facing Lance at Table 2 conveniently places him with his back to where Shiro is dancing with his new husband.

He doesn’t even realize that he and Lance have closed out the venue until Shiro announces the afterparty at the hotel’s bar. Before he knows it, he and Lance have overstayed their welcome at the afterparty bar, too, and Lance says, “I’d invite you up to my room, but I’m pretty sure Hunk is passed out right now,” and before Keith can second-guess it, he says, “I have beer in mine, if you still want to catch up.”

Which is weird. Since when do he and Lance _catch up_? Keith has no idea. He also has no idea what they’ve been talking _about_ , other than anything and everything that’s not Shiro and the fact that he’s marrying someone who isn’t—

Fuck.

In the room, Keith toes off his shoes by the door and sits on the end of one of the beds. Head swimming a little, he bends forward to reach into the cardboard case beside the desk. He holds up a bottle as Lance steps into the room.

“Beer? It’s warm, but...”

(But it’s late enough, and they’re both already drunk and the world has ended, so who gives a shit.)

“Sure.” Lance takes it with a smile. Then his face goes slack. He stares blankly at the cap. “Uh, I don’t…”

Keith snorts and takes it back. He positions the cap on the edge of the side table and then slams the heel of his hand on it to pop it open with a satisfying _thunk_. His palm stings as he hands it back to Lance. It was dumb, he could have gone to get the bottle opener on his keychain, but it’s one of those nights.

“Thanks.” Lance grips the bottleneck and waits as Keith opens his own. Keith is about to swig it back when Lance holds out his bottle expectantly. “To happily ever after,” he says, his voice laced with something Keith has rarely heard before in Lance. Something dark and dripping. He sounds nearly as bitter as Keith feels.

“…Yeah.” Keith clinks his bottle obligingly against Lance’s. They both drink.

Lance sits back in his chair, tipping his head back to rest on the wall. “Never thought we’d be here, honestly.”

Keith’s mind spins back: the ceremony the vows the kiss the dance—

“Me neither,” he mutters.

“I mean.” The side of Lance’s mouth quirks up. “Lance and Keith? Bitter rivals, sharing a beer? Impossible.”

 _Oh. Right._ Keith looks away, takes another swig of his beer. _Keep it the fuck together, Kogane. Shiro’s wedding is not the apocalyptic, defining event of everyone else’s life, too._

“Yeah, well,” Keith drawls, smirking. “You grew on me, I guess.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

Keith raises an eyebrow.

Lance smiles, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “All right, I’m as shocked as you are. I was pretty insufferable when this all started.”

“Was?”

“Ha-ha.”

Keith huffs a laugh. He takes another swig, considering what to say. He’s not in the habit of making concessions for himself, even less so to Lance, but… if being drunk in a hotel room at Shiro’s wedding when Keith isn’t the one Shiro is getting married to isn’t an extenuating circumstance, he’s not quite sure what is.

“I was pretty insufferable, too,” he says finally, reluctantly. “To be fair.”

“Yeah, but you were, like, the most talented student to go through the Garrison in ten years or whatever, you had some leg to stand on.” Lance gestures aimlessly as he searches for words. “I was just some… hopped-up cargo pilot desperate for someone to give him a chance.”

Keith is quickly realizing that his brain is not equipped for a conversation like this right now. One where he might have to reassure and comfort. “Blue gave you a chance,” he tries, unsure if it’s helpful.

“Yeah, she did,” Lance says, smiling ruefully as he picks at the label on his bottle. “Allura, too.”

Keith’s not certain whether Lance means Blue gave Allura a chance or if Allura gave _him_ a chance. He’s even less certain whether he wants to untangle it.

Stiffly, he says, “You deserved one, Lance.”

The statement is neutral, and he believes it. That’s the happy middle ground where he’s found his pep-talks to be most effective. He long ago had to admit to himself that he could never achieve the level of earnestness that Shiro—

Keith clenches a fist, choking off that line of thought.

“A chance?” Lance asks, his thin eyebrows bowed upwards. Keith wonders, not for the first time, if Lance has them shaped or something. He could imagine Lance leaning into a mirror, squinting hard at his brow line, holding a pair of tweezers to some intransigent, out-of-place hair. Keith’s eyebrows have never behaved, because he’s never asked them to.

“Yeah,” says Keith with a shrug. “A chance, I guess. A win.”

Lance snorts. “Yeah, a win would be nice.” He takes a quick pull from his bottle and, seeming belatedly to register what he’s said, looks sheepishly at Keith. “Sorry, I’m a bit of a moody drunk these days. You can tell me to get the fuck out any time.”

“Would be kind of hypocritical of me.”

Lance laughs at that, in a way that Keith thinks is sincere. He raises a bottle to Keith with an amused nod, and they both drink.

Settling against the back of the chair, Lance regards Keith sidelong. “I liked your speech.”

Keith swallows hard, looking at the floor. He nods. “Thanks.”

“I knew you and Shiro were close, but… I guess I didn’t realize exactly how close.”

Keith presses his lips tight together. “He was all I had,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Alcohol does all sorts of fucked-up things to his emotions. He could cry— _has_ cried, in the past—if he talks about what Shiro means to him.

“ _Was_.”

Keith has to glance up, has to see the look of utter sincerity on Lance’s face, to realize that Lance isn’t parroting his own joke back at him. He looks down just as quickly, just as essentially, to keep a tight rein on his emotions.

What the fuck. Lance is making him want to cry? _Lance?_

Shiro’s wedding has fucking broken him.

“You have us now. Not just Shiro.”

“Well, you too,” says Keith, gritting his teeth, desperate to get the focus off of him and his _feelings_. “You have us, too. Like, you can talk to us, if you need to. Any of us.”

“I do,” says Lance, so easily it surprises Keith. “Hunk and I talk. Like, once a week, usually. Sometimes more.”

Keith’s eyebrows twitch downwards. Reflexively, bitterly, he thinks, _What about me?_

 _You don’t want him to talk to you, idiot,_ he reminds himself immediately afterwards.

He wonders if Lance means that he and Hunk _talk_ talk. Keith has only ever had one person he could _talk_ talk to, and never in a no-holds-barred sort of way. Never in a spill-every-last-one-of-your-guts-including-your-heart sort of way.

“That’s... good,” he says lamely. “About, uh… about, uhh…?”

Lance lifts an eyebrow at him, amused by his fumbling. “Allura?”

Keith nods.

“Nah,” says Lance, turning his head away. “I mean, we did at first. But then Hunk… I don’t mean that Hunk got over her, but…” He shrugs, tearing a strip of label off his half-empty bottle. “Maybe I do mean that. He got over her. And I… didn’t?” He snorts, and it’s wet. 

Keith watches him carefully, wondering how far his duty to comfort extends here, as they rapidly leave the familiar ground of Lance’s ability as a pilot and a soldier and enter uncharted territory, at least for Keith. Even when Lance came to him for encouragement and companionship on their last night on Earth, Keith had only found himself able to speak authoritatively on Lance as the Paladin of the Red Lion. No matter how much he had come to believe by then that Lance was worthy, consoling from the heart was never his forte.

“I don’t… I don’t think I could ever…” Lance’s face convulses, and he shoves the bottle to his lips and drinks deeply, draining the rest of it.

Keith looks away. He’s unsure exactly how Lance wants to be treated in a moment of vulnerability but knows that having eyes on him when he’s feeling weak is the worst feeling in the world.

He clears his throat. “That’s… I think that’s normal,” he says quietly. “Never to get over losing someone you love.”

“Is it?” The look on Lance’s face is so plainly incredulous, so blatantly horrified that Keith’s eyebrows lift. “You think I’m just gonna… feel this way forever?”

“I— I don’t…”

“That can’t be true,” he goes on, shaking his head. “It’s… easier, now. Than it was. It’s not like every _day_ it gets easier. Some days it’s hard. Some days it’s so fucking hard. But it’s easier, on the whole. I have to believe that someday it won’t kill me like it does.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t think you could ever…”

“ _Forget_ her,” says Lance, frowning, “I guess is what I meant. Gotta say, though.” He laughs, looking up at Keith with a self-deprecating grin. “I wouldn’t mind getting over it.”

Keith holds his gaze for a moment before he snorts. “Yeah,” he chuckles, nodding. “I… I feel you.”

It spills out and splats on the carpet, a piece of his heart. Regret claws up Keith’s throat after it, like he can catch it and shove it back down again. His heart pounds even through the haze of drink.

“Yeah?” Lance asks, head tilted curiously. “Who?”

Keith must not hide his reluctance to answer the question very well, because Lance laughs.

“I mean, I only ask because I know you're not talking about Allura. It wasn’t exactly a secret that you two weren’t close.”

Keith presses his lips together. That’s true, but it’s not a good reflection on him as the leader of Voltron if he let feelings like that be known. She just made a bad first impression on him, and for Keith, bad first impressions are difficult, if not impossible, to overcome.

“It’s not like I didn’t like her…”

Lance lifts a hand placatingly. “Nah, dude, I know, I know,” he says quickly. “I told her that like a million times.”

Keith blinks. “You did?”

“Yeah. For a while there, she kinda thought you hated her, actually. I had to tell her that it just takes you a while to warm up to someone.”

Keith purses his lips. Strictly speaking, he’s not sure if that’s true. He does take a while to warm up, but it’s not a foregone conclusion. It’s pretty fucking rare, in fact. Keith could probably count on one hand the number of people he once wrote off completely who then clawed their way back into his begrudging good graces.

One of them is sitting in this room.

“Or, I mean, that’s how I saw it, anyway,” Lance mumbles awkwardly in Keith’s silence.

Elbows on his knees, Keith regards him. Lance’s face has thinned and hardened in the years since the war. The Altean marks frame his eyes, calling attention to his cheekbones in a way that Keith imagines Lance must admire in the mirror. He’s still young, they’re both still young, but there’s a weariness in Lance’s eyes that Keith recognizes in his own. In Pidge’s and in Hunk’s.

In Shiro’s.

He suddenly, fiercely, hates to see it.

“Well, you would,” sighs Keith, saying it like it’s being dragged out of him. Lance looks up inquisitively, and he gives him a wry grin. “’Cause I warmed up to you.”

Lance’s thin eyebrows twitch in momentary confusion before a slow smile breaks out on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

After a moment, Lance snorts and holds out the butt of his empty bottle to clink with Keith’s. “Well, likewise, team leader.” And just like that, Lance’s mood has lifted. The energy in the room is light, lighter than it has felt all evening. “Another?” 

Keith glances at his near-empty beer and nods.

Lance levers himself up out of the chair to fish two more bottles out of the case. “You know,” he muses loudly, “I always thought you were the shit.”

“What? No, you didn’t,” Keith laughs incredulously as he takes the bottle Lance offers him. “Bottle opener on my keychain. Jacket pocket.” He gestures to where it’s draped on the second bed.

“Nice. And yes, I absolutely thought you were cool as hell.” Lance reaches in the wrong pocket first before finding the keychain. It jingles as he opens his own bottle and then tosses it to Keith, who catches it easily. “I mean, not as cool as me, but— wait, if you had a bottle opener, why did you…?”

Keith shrugs and pops the top of his bottle with a fizz. “Just something you do when you’re the shit, I suppose.”

Lance rolls his eyes as he sits down, his weight dropping into the chair punching a sigh out of him. “Classic Keith. Always choosing the hard way.”

Keith chuckles. It’s unusual for him to laugh at himself, but something in the way Lance has come to rib him over the years makes it easier.

 _Classic Keith_.

He says it so fondly, so familiarly. It feels different, coming from Lance. It carries the weight of every stupid argument, every purposefully too-hard hit in the training arena, every choice that one of them made that the other would never, _could_ never, understand. It also holds the softening warmth of the realization that it’s not necessary for them to instinctually, immediately grasp each other in order to be able to rely on one another when it counts.

Because at some point over the years, Keith doesn’t know when, they both came to this understanding: that the two of them were utterly, irrevocably different.

He’s not sure he’s ever had someone in his life like Lance, someone whose choices and feelings and actions are so deeply incomprehensible to him but whom he still trusts with his life. He trusts all of the Paladins, of course, but it was easier with the others. Pidge was instantly, obviously admirable. Sharp, driven, unconcerned with the opinions of others—all qualities that Keith prized. Hunk was kind and warm, fearful and concerned, and although Keith didn’t exactly relate, he could respect Hunk’s commitment to others and his ability to overcome his fear. By the time Allura became a Paladin, she had proven herself time and time again; it was easy to trust her in the field of battle, though he would never fully thaw towards her. And Shiro…

Well.

Shiro was everything Keith aspired to be. There were moments that Shiro made decisions Keith didn’t understand, sure, but he always trusted Shiro’s choice would be ultimately for the best. That is, until the day a little over a year ago when Shiro pulled out the little velvet box from his jacket pocket and, for a split second, Keith’s heart leapt into his throat because maybe, somehow Shiro—

No. Better not to think about that.

The point is, Lance is different. Loud and silly and… and confusing, honestly. For a long time, Keith had no clue exactly where he stood with Lance, and it made him feel off-balance and irritable. There were moments, early on— _really_ early on—when Keith thought they were on the same page. He had flashes of what he thought was clarity that their so-called rivalry was a bit or a goof, something that Lance was just playfully carrying on as his way of including Keith, like racing in their Lions or doing that dumb Voltron chant. And Keith let himself go along with it because, well… he’d never been included before. He let himself think, _Maybe_. _Maybe this time. Maybe these people_.

But then Lance spat on all that.

Lance spat on all that, on their bonding moment, and Keith narrowed his eyes and thought, _Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be_ , and went right back to trusting no one but Shiro.

So it’s weird now to hear Lance say that he “always” thought Keith was cool. There’s no way. Not the Lance he remembers. Not the Lance that made him feel so utterly off-kilter and rejected at every turn.

“You did not think I was cool,” he says, deadpan.

Lance smirks. “Still thinking about that, huh?”

Keith glares at him. Fucking typical Lance.

Lance sighs, stretching his legs out long in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. “Hell yeah, I thought you were cool. I wanted you to like me so bad.”

And Keith has to try hard not to laugh. _Lance?_ Wanted _Keith_ to _like him?_ He feels his eyebrows pinch together. “You sure had a funny way of showing it.”

“In my defense, I was seventeen. I think we’ve established I was a moron.” Lance shoots him a grin that Keith half-returns. “And don’t be too flattered; I wanted everyone to like me. You were just the toughest nut to crack. Plus, I…”

Keith tries to be patient and wait for the end of that sentence, but this might be the most interesting conversation he’s ever had with Lance. It’s a peek into Lance’s psyche, something he never thought he’d understand.

“Yeah…?”

“Ugh.” Lance rolls his eyes and scrubs a hand down his face. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought you were cute.”

Keith’s pretty sure his brain sparks and fizzles out like an old lightbulb.

Lance’s psyche is not at all what he was expecting.

“Oh,” Keith says, dumbfounded.

But Lance is still talking. “…And at the time I didn’t fully know yet that I was bi, and I thought that I was jealous of you or that I just really wanted to _be_ you or something. And maybe that was part of it, but it was also just me not realizing that I liked guys, too, and I think it came out in me being loud and obnoxious and… just a whole-ass idiot, so.”

“Oh,” Keith says again. His drunk brain is still trying to make sense of this.

Lance was attracted to him?

Lance acted the way he did because he was attracted to him? 

Lance snorts. “Mind blown?”

“You were such a dick to me,” is all he can think to say.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. But to be fair, you were a dick to me, too.”

Lance says it teasingly, but Keith still presses his lips together. Because yeah, he was, and kind of on purpose, kind of specifically _to Lance_. Because after Sendak’s attack on the castle, Keith showed sincere concern for Lance, showed that he cared, showed vulnerability in front of everyone, and Lance rejected it, also in front of everyone. That, to eighteen-year-old Keith, was unforgivable.

But if Lance was doing it out of some misguided, adolescent attempt to seem cool in front of a guy he thought was cute…?

Keith frowns. He can understand the impulse, at least.

Maybe he and Lance aren’t so different after all.

“Yeah, well,” Keith says, shifting uncomfortably, “I probably… wanted you to like me, too.”

If Keith was surprised, Lance looks thunderstruck.

“Whuh…?”

“At first,” Keith says quickly, still acting on his instinct not to give too much, not to let Lance spit on it again. “Before I got to know you.”

Lance is still staring at him, eyes wide, thin eyebrows nearly in his hair. Then his face twitches a little, half-smiling. “Once you got to know me you didn’t want me to like you anymore?”

Keith grimaces. God, he fucking sucks at this kind of thing. “I guess I figured we just weren’t gonna get along,” he finally says, a little stiff.

To his surprise, though, Lance doesn’t seem offended. Instead, his face softens. “I… didn’t think you gave a shit at all, honestly.”

“I mean,” Keith says, unable to help the slightly scathing tone that creeps into his voice, “I cradled you in my arms.”

“Yeah,” Lance laughs, “and I denied it and then tried to hook up with the first girl I saw.”

Keith’s brain gives another one of those little fizzle-sparks. Connections are being made. “Huh.” 

Lance lifts his beer with a rueful grin. “Like I said, a whole-ass idiot.” He tips it back and then drapes a leg over one arm of the chair, gradually beginning to comfortably slouch, his foot swinging in the air. He’s becoming expansive, holding forth. A Lance that Keith knows. “Anyway, I think I started to fully _get it_ , the bi thing, around when you left for the Blade of Marmora. Like, Shiro was back, and, let’s be honest, you’d have to be like a big fat Kinsey Zero not to wanna— oh god.” Lance sits up suddenly, cringing. “Is this sacrilegious to say on his wedding night?”

Keith grimaces, a jealous flame licking in his gut. Sure, Shiro is gorgeous, heartbreakingly so. Keith’s not surprised that anyone would notice him—and honestly, in some ways it just confirms that Lance has good taste. But there’s still something in him that wants to hiss and spit and scream at Lance, _Back off, I saw him first!_

Completely useless, considering the current circumstances.

He forces his hackles to lower, shoving down the impotent jealousy. Fortunately, he has a lot of practice.

Slightly strained, he says, “You’re good.”

“Okay.” Lance relaxes, as though Keith’s blessing is all he needed. “Anyway, Shiro.” He chuckles. “Like, I think we can all agree: Shiro.”

Keith takes a swig of his beer.

“So I started thinking, like, ‘Do I like guys?’ But I was also still getting to know Allura better, and I knew I wanted to be with her, but once I noticed how I was staring at Shiro all the time, I started thinking about how I always… noticed other guys’ bodies? Like, since forever. I thought I was just comparing, you know? Just like, ‘I wish I had those shoulders,’ or, ‘God, that’s a killer jawline.’ Stuff anyone would notice. Or, that I _thought_ anyone would notice. And then, uh…” He winces a little at Keith, like what he’s about to say is going to be weird.

Keith quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Lance squints one eye shut, hunching his shoulders like he’s embarrassed. As if Lance gets embarrassed. “Well, this may be TMI, but, uh, when you showed back up in that skin-tight Blade uniform…?”

Another fizzle-spark goes off in Keith’s brain, along with something else. Something pleased, coiling inside him. Flattery. Amusement.

Keith smirks. “Yeah?”

Lance laughs, relaxing. “Yeah. Whew.” He stretches one arm back, resting his hand behind his head against the wall. “But you were a grade A douche to me, so.” He grins cheekily and shrugs, bringing the bottle to his lips.

He says it as though Keith missed his chance. As though at that point Keith gave a shit about anything other than saving the universe or about anyone other than Shiro.

Keith leans back on the bed. “So I was your bi awakening,” he says, smug.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Lance says, waggling a finger. “ _Shiro_ was my bi awakening. You were my bi… confirmation.”

Keith can’t help the self-satisfied smile on his face. Lance thought he was hot. Keith was busy doing other shit, and Lance was thinking about _him_ and how good he looked in his Blade uniform. There’s something so sickly satisfying about that, something that strokes his ego just right.

It feels especially good, considering today’s events.

Lance tilts his head at him, smiling teasingly. “And this is traditionally the part where you would throw me a fucking bone, man.”

Keith laughs. Actually laughs. It might be the first time all day.

So he lies back, propped up on an elbow. Lets his eyes rake over Lance’s body obviously, appraisingly, while Lance stares back at him, expectant. 

Eventually, he shrugs. “You were all right.”

“All right!?” Lance’s bottle slams on the desk beside him as he sits forward abruptly. “I was a fucking catch!”

“I thought you said you were a whole-ass idiot.”

“I’m talking about my looks, not my personality!”

“Well, your personality was pretty hard to look past.”

“Yeah, well, so was yours, but I fucking managed, didn’t I?”

They glare at each other.

Then Lance laughs, and lets his head loll down between his shoulders, and so Keith laughs, too.

Another fizzle-spark goes off in his brain, this one even bigger than the rest, more like a firework. Because maybe those moments of clarity from way back in the beginning, those moments when he thought he was catching on…

Those moments when he thought he knew that their stupid fights, their made-up rivalry, their constant arguing all were part of some grand schtick that they were stumbling towards, some big inside joke between Keith and Lance…

Those moments that he later looked back on and felt ashamed of himself for even trying, when Lance so clearly was making fun of him…

Maybe those moments really _were_ clarity. Maybe he really _was_ right. Maybe they really _had_ been building to something more, to a schtick, to an inside joke, to Lance spreading out his hands with a smile and fondly saying, _Classic Keith_.

Maybe Lance kept trying to build to it without Keith even realizing.

He snaps back to the present when Lance shakes his head, still chuckling. “‘All right’,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

Keith feels something unfamiliar to him. The urge to give an inch. Even though he knows Lance could take a mile.

He clears his throat and fixes his gaze on his beer. His stomach twists, protesting what he’s about to say. Quietly, begrudgingly, he grumbles, “I… thought you were cute, too.”

Lance goes quiet. It lasts for so long that Keith has to glance up from under his shaggy hair to check on him. To his surprise, Lance isn’t in shock, and he’s not taking a mile. No, he’s staring into space, chewing his bottom lip, his thin, expressive brows pinched in the center of his face. He looks… pensive. Thoughtful.

It’s not an expression Keith is used to seeing on Lance’s face, to say the least.

“…Lance?”

He blinks, coming to. “Sorry. Kinda zoned out there.”

“Mind blown?” His tone is wry.

Lance laughs. “Guess you could say that. I just… Like I said, I didn’t think you…”

“Had feelings.” It’s something he’s heard before.

Lance barks out a laugh. “Other than white-hot rage? Not so much. Huh.” He taps his thumb against the side of the bottle, expression still pensive but increasingly musing. “ _Huh_.”

“Huh?”

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” Lance declares somewhat airily, sitting back again and crossing one ankle over his knee. “It’s not like I was in love with you or anything. Like I said, I didn’t even know I was bi when we first started, and by the time I realized, you were gone, and I was pretty crazy about Allura, so…”

Keith frowns at him. He’s connecting the dots of what Lance is thinking. Of what Lance is implying. “Are you saying…”

Lance grins at him. “Think of it. What could have been.”

“Nothing would have happened between us, Lance.”

“If I had known I was bi from the get-go.”

“You not knowing you were bi is not the reason nothing ever happened between us.”

“Oh, please.” Lance rolls his eyes. “We were two teenage boys who were into boys, attracted to each other, trapped all but alone in space. You’re saying _nothing_ would have happened? Not even a rookie combo?”

“What the hell is a rookie combo?”

“Mutual over-the-pants hand jobs, under a blanket, while pretending to watch a movie.”

Keith stares at Lance for a moment, processing what he’s just said. Creating a mental image. Teenage fumbling, both of them hard and increasingly chafed by palms rubbing too hard over clothes but too excited at the prospect of actually getting some to call uncle.

Somehow he can see it so clearly.

He snorts. “That is indeed a rookie combo.”

“Right?” Laughing, Lance folds his hands together and cracks his knuckles with affected pomposity. “Rookie combo king right here.”

“Not sure if that’s something to brag about.”

“Oh, it’s not,” Lance agrees quickly, making Keith smile. “But I sure as shit would’ve bragged about it. I probably would have made sex into a competition, to be honest. I would have been daring you to see who could come fastest or longest or hardest, or whatever. I woulda been like, ‘I just topped my personal jerkoff record. Beat that, Keith!’” Lance makes his voice go just a bit higher, just a bit more frantic, and he sounds just like he did back then, shouting at Keith over the comms from Red, from Blue.

Somehow he can _hear_ it so clearly.

“And you would’ve been like…” Lance’s face hardens, his half-smirk gaining an edge. “‘Heh, that’s all you’ve got? I could come faster than that with both hands tied behind my back.’” 

Keith can’t stop the chuckle that escapes his lips, because even he can admit it sounds like him. Him at eighteen, that is, not… not now. He’s not like that anymore. 

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Keith says with a shrug. “But I _have_ been known to come with my hands tied behind my back.”

Lance’s bottle stutters halfway to his lips. “ _Well_ ,” he says with a smile, his tone giving no indication of finishing the thought.

“Well…?” Keith echoes. He can’t stop his smirk from spreading, feeling on balance again, on the offensive where previously he had been fending Lance off. “What would you have to say to that, sharpshooter?”

Lance quirks an eyebrow. “Back then? Probably nothing. But I can tell you I wouldn’t have been able to think of anything but you coming with both hands tied behind your back for… oh, _years_ , probably.” He grins at Keith and takes another quick pull from his beer and…

Somehow, Keith can also see _that_ far too clearly, too.

“Then it’s a good thing nothing happened between us,” Keith says, “because it sounds like you would have had a hard time concentrating on your missions.”

“I already had a hard time concentrating on my missions, might as well have gotten laid during it.” 

Keith chokes on beer and a laugh. “Come on. Are you really saying you wish we’d hooked up? If you could go back in time, you’d change it so we fucked?”

Lance is grinning, too. “I’m saying I always came in second best to you, but that’s only because nobody graded us under the sheets.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah! But in this case, I’d be happy to…” Lance’s eyes glint during his dramatic pause. “… _come_ _second_.”

It shouldn’t be funny. It’s _not_ funny; it’s fucking moronic. But somehow it has both of them cracking up, Keith turning his face to the bedspread, holding his beer in front of him to mask his laughter. It’s… it’s the alcohol, it’s the situation, it’s the fact that the world fucking ended when Shiro said _I do_ but no one else got the goddamn memo. 

When Keith lifts his head, Lance is just lowering his from where it was tilted straight back, laughing at the ceiling. Their eyes meet, shining, and Keith feels lifted, light.

“Well, it’s a shame, then,” he says wryly. “Sounds like we really missed our chance.”

Lance, head cocked to the side, eyes soft and sad and easy, just looks at him. He leans forward, and so does Keith, and _clink_ , their bottles touch again.

Yes, the world ends on Shiro’s wedding day, as Keith knew it would. But in its place began to bloom a new world—uncertain and unfamiliar, loud and soft and silly and sweet and…

And fucking confusing as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SPOILER NOTE:** ~~keith has some flashbacks to (and eventually tells lance about) having sex with evil clone shiro "kuron" once before he left for the blade of marmora. there is no keith/shiro or keith/kuron sexual content other than keith's hazy-ish memories.~~
> 
> thanks to alec and jane for the beta reads, to the vld gc for letting me be colin robinson sucking the energy from the sheith shippers with my snippets, and to the reddie gc for being like “ur doing amazing sweetie” while this fic took over my motivation.


	2. Room to Grow

The next morning, Keith checks out of the hotel and, shortly thereafter, the solar system. He doesn’t want to stick around to see pictures of the honeymoon.

It’s a couple phoebs before he has enough of a break from work to get back, and honestly, it can’t come soon enough. Normally he wouldn’t be so desperate to return to Earth, but ever since the Blade of Marmora transitioned to a humanitarian organization, the work has become exponentially more bureaucratic. Keith’s time is taken up by meeting upon endless meeting, each of which feels even more useless than the last. Lately, they’ve been finding dwindling numbers of planets willing to sponsor them, which means their operations have been dwindling, as well.

Turns out a humanitarian organization needs money in order to help people.

It also turns out that begging for money is not Keith’s strong suit. Or Krolia’s. Or Kolivan’s.

Ugh.

After yet another fruitless bid to help rebuild, Keith pushes back from the long conference table with a huff, his wolf appears at his side like he knew Keith would need him, and within minutes they’re both in a pod shooting off for Earth.

He’s never been so glad for a galactic holiday.

So glad, in fact, that he’s well en route before he realizes that he’s not sure where he’ll be staying. Usually, he crashes with Shiro at his subsidized Garrison housing, sleeping in the guest room and getting up early so he can chat with a sleep-mussed, bespectacled Shiro in the kitchen before Curtis stumbles out of their shared bedroom.

Now, though, they’re… 

_…newlyweds_.

The thought makes a pit yawn in Keith’s stomach.

He tries to shove it down, to gather up the sides of it and pinch it together. He pulls up his Earth-linked comm system and jabs his finger at the first name that doesn’t make that pit any deeper.

***

He touches down in the unplowed fields of the McClain family’s farm sometime in the late evening. The stars he’s just left are shining bright in the clear sky. It’s a small welcome party that greets them as he and his wolf descend the ramp of the pod.

“Good to see you, man,” Lance says. His voice is warm as he clasps Keith’s hand with a grin.

Keith smiles wearily as he squeezes Lance’s hand back and drops it. “You, too.”

Lance’s sister Veronica is next, standing beside him with a sleeping child draped over her shoulders. She hoists the kid a little higher and lifts her chin in greeting. “Long time no see, Keith.”

Lance huffs. “You can’t say that, you saw him more recently than I did.”

“That was for work. It doesn’t count.” Veronica rolls her eyes, swaying her hips to lull the child.

Keith eyes the pair of them uncertainly. He’s never been good with kids, not even when he was one. Being in the presence of a sleeping child feels something like handling a landmine.

Lance must catch him looking. He says quietly, “This is Maya. She’s Luis’s youngest.”

“Oh,” says Keith.

Lance’s smile is fond as he reaches out to brush Maya’s hair aside from the cheek that’s smushed against Veronica’s shoulder. “She’s a big fan of the Red Paladin from the Voltron cartoon show, so she wanted to stay up late to meet him.”

Keith snorts, hefting his pack over his shoulder. “She lives with him.”

“That’s what I said!”

“New team stinks,” Veronica recites wryly, as though this is something they’ve all heard many times around the farmhouse. “Old team was _waaay_ better.”

“Yeah, apparently she only likes the _old_ Red Paladin, not the _new_ one. Hates that her Uncle Lance got a promotion.” Lance shoots a glare at the sleeping child for a second before it melts from his face.

“Or maybe she just misses Shiro,” Keith suggests.

“Nah, Shiro’s back now. She’s only got eyes for you, buddy. Clearly she got the McClain taste in aliens.” Smiling, Lance pats him firmly on the shoulder and pulls him forward with it. “Anyway, we saved you some leftovers. Everyone else is winding down for the night, but if we sit on the porch, we can stay up and chat.”

Keith, exhausted but keyed up from the trip, accepts with a grateful nod. Veronica slips away to put Maya to bed while Keith follows Lance into the bright, cramped kitchen. Arms crossed, he shuffles sideways to avoid getting in Lance’s way while he sticks a plate of chicken parmesan in the microwave and punches in the time.

“Just put your bag down at the base of the stairs,” Lance says, nodding. “We’ll grab it on the way up.”

Inside, the farmhouse looks the same as it did the only other time Keith's visited Lance, for a joint picnic with the other Paladins. They were celebrating something. Maybe Lance’s birthday. Maybe a promotion for Shiro or Pidge. It doesn’t matter, really. 

It was a summer day, children running on the lawn when Keith touched down in the long grass. He came inside to this very same kitchen, where Shiro was bending over a cake that Hunk was icing, peering at it with a half-smile. It was the first time Keith saw Shiro in glasses. It was maybe a year and a half ago, not long after the first anniversary of the war’s end.

He frowns.

… _No, wait…_

Keith’s bad at guessing children’s ages, but he’s pretty sure Maya wasn’t around last time he visited. And if she’s old enough to be talking and watching TV and… then… 

That can’t be right…

“So when was the last time you were here?” Lance asks casually, as though reading his mind. He hip-checks the refrigerator door as he stands up with two beers in hand.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Keith admits, eyeing a photo taped to one of the wood cabinets. It’s the entire McClain family at a wedding, and he easily picks out Lance standing by an unfamiliar woman. Blonde. Pretty. Not a bridesmaid because the dress color is wrong. Squinting, he says, “It was for that picnic thing.”

Lance jerks open a drawer that slides out crooked and full of junk, fishing among the miscellaneous kitchen tools. “Wow, has it been that long?” he chuckles. “That’s, like, three years ago now.” 

Something like shock jolts up Keith’s spine, panic at how the years slip so meaninglessly through his fingers. His eyes flash to Lance, staring, wondering if he can see the lost time written on his face.

Lance is gripping one of the beers by the neck, brandishing a bottle-opener shaped like a hotdog.

 _Ch-kss_.

Keith snorts.

Grinning, Lance hands him the beer. He dangles the hotdog bottle-opener from his fingers, eyes shining. “Are you admiring my wiener?”

Keith stares at him flatly. “You _would_ say that.”

“Well, I caught you lookin’.” _Ch-kss._ He lifts an eyebrow. “Porch?”

The rocking chair creaks beneath his weight as Keith lowers himself into it. He balances the plate of chicken parmesan on his knees while Lance hospitably sets Keith’s beer down on the table next to his chair and then takes his own seat. The wolf slinks out of the dark to settle at Keith’s feet, yawning before he sets his head on his paws.

“Ma set up an air mattress for you in my room,” Lance says, resting his feet on the porch railing, crossed at the ankles. “Not a whole lotta space in Casa McClain that’s not already used up.”

“That’s fine.” When he stays with Shiro, he gets a guest room, but it’s worth an air mattress not to impose on the newlyweds.

“I’ll try not to step on you when I get up to start working.”

That comment gives him some pause. Lance was enthusiastic when Keith haltingly asked him over the comms if he could stay, but... 

Twirling spaghetti onto his fork, he asks, “Should I not have come?”

“Yeah, I hate seeing your face. It sucks.”

Keith looks over, his mouth full of chicken parm. Lance winks at him.

The front door opens, the creaky screen door swings out, and Veronica steps onto the porch, carrying a steaming mug. “Mind if I join you for a bit?”

“Pop a squat, sis, and try not to look at Keith when he’s eating. It’s an atrocity.”

Keith rolls his eyes and swallows. Typical Lance.

Veronica leans against one of the columns of the porch, looking down at him. “How’s the Blade doing?”

Endless days of endless meetings come roaring back to Keith. It might be the absolute last thing he wants to think about right now, including the reason that he’s here tonight and not in Garrison housing like normal.

“Okay,” he mumbles, shoving another forkful into his mouth.

Veronica cocks her head. “Only okay?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Lance cuts in. “I forget you’re not fluent. Allow me to translate from Keith into human English.” Sitting forward, Lance clears his throat loudly and then sets his face in a frown, crossing an arm harshly over his chest before he growls, _“I don’t want to talk about it.”_ Abruptly he drops the act, turning to Keith with a rapturous grin. “Did I do it? How was that?”

“…Okay.”

Lance laughs, his body melting against the chair. “Ah, I set myself up for that one. Classic Keith.”

“Sorry if you really don’t want to talk about it, Keith,” Veronica says, making Keith instantly feel at least ten percent more awkward about his standoffishness than he normally does around Lance. He forgets sometimes how to have manners with strangers, when Lance is right there. Being _Lance_.

“No, it’s fine,” he says slowly, still chewing. “We’re just… having a hard time finding projects right now.”

“Oh, really? Anything I can help with?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lance grin broadly at his sister. “Don’t be coy, Ronnie, you can just ask about her.”

Veronica glares at Lance so hard, Keith is almost surprised he doesn’t vaporize on the spot. But Lance barely reacts; if anything, he smiles even wider. Keith thinks back to all those times he tried and failed to intimidate Lance, to get him to fuck off with just a dirty look. Lance’s utter imperviousness now makes sense. He is the youngest of five, after all.

Keith swallows, looking from Lance to Veronica and back. Last time he saw Veronica, she was in an Earth delegation to a meeting of the new intergalactic alliance. The Blade had been there to, essentially, panhandle for funding from well-off planets. He thinks he remembers Veronica chatting with his mom for a bit. “Who do you mean? Krolia?”

“Noo…” Lance drawls, grinning catlike at Veronica.

Keith chews on his last bite, tries to think who else was there. “Ezor?”

_“Nooo…”_

“Lance.” Veronica’s tone is both warning and exasperated. “Why are you like this.”

Lance’s smile is bulletproof. “Because I have but a dried-out husk where my heart used to be. Now tell Keith who you’re really asking about.”

Finally done with dinner and able to fully focus on the conversation, Keith says, “Are you interested in someone in the Blade, Veronica?”

Over her mug, Veronica’s eyes narrow at Lance even further. Then her shoulders slump. She groans. “Ugh, fine, it’s Acxa.”

 _Ah. Makes sense._ Now that they mention it, Keith does think he noticed them chatting on the outskirts of the (he almost shudders) _meetings_.

“And I’m not really _interested_. I’d just like to… get to know her better.”

Lance pushes his rocking chair back so far that his toes are pointed against the railing. He rolls his head over to smile lazily at Keith. “Like I said, the McClains like their aliens.”

Keith breaks contact with Lance’s glinting, heavy-lidded eyes to put his empty plate on the side table. Brushing off his hands, he takes up his beer and says, “You’re such a little brother.”

With an indignant squawk, Lance lets his feet fall from the railing as Veronica barks out a pleased laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean!?”

“It means you’re obnoxious.”

“I am not!”

“You’re acting like you read her diary or something.”

Veronica keeps laughing. “He wishes. I made sure to hide that shit after he read Rachel’s, the little snot.”

Now it’s Lance’s turn to glare, and Veronica sticks her tongue out at him.

“To answer your question, Acxa is good,” Keith says, rocking his chair slightly. “You should go for it, if you’re interested.”

“Or ‘want to get to know her better’,” Lance sneers at Veronica.

“Oh, shut up. You had that thing with that girl at the farmer’s market. What was her name, Kara? What happened with her, huh?”

“Nothing happened with her. Like I said, _dried-out husk_ ,” Lance replies, tapping his chest with amused emphasis. His chair creaks as he rocks it. “My time has gone, sister, but that doesn’t mean I can’t root for others. Don’t let love pass you by. Life is short.”

Veronica rolls her eyes and stands up. “All right, that’s my cue to leave. I hate when he gets all tragic. Keith, if he starts talking about _never loving again_ , feel free to lock him outside tonight. See you in the morning.” She gives Lance’s hair a ruffle as she passes on her way back to the front door.

Once she’s inside, Lance turns back to Keith. He drapes the back of his hand over his forehead and, eyelids fluttering shut, he sighs. “She’s so _dramatic_.”

Almost in spite of himself, Keith chuckles. Typical Lance.

They chat on the porch for a bit longer, both yawning more than talking. Keith’s wolf is passed out on the painted wood beside them, occasionally letting out a whistling snore. When Lance nearly spills his beer all over himself from drifting off, they decide to turn in.

The air mattress set up for Keith is a narrow twin, but Lance’s room is so small that it leaves only a spare six inches of walking space. No wonder Lance said he would try not to step on him. It’s a far cry from the full-size bed with the red pillows in Shiro’s guest room.

 _Doesn’t matter_ , Keith thinks, eyes drooping; _it’s a bed_.

While Lance is in the bathroom, Keith strips down to his boxers, crawls under the quilt, and has barely the time to wonder if he should set an alarm before he falls asleep.

***

The next day, Keith visits Shiro.

The landing pad at the Garrison is a smoother touchdown than the fields behind the McClains’ farm, but the bevy of uniformed engineers who greet him aren’t nearly as warm a welcome as Lance, Veronica, and Keith’s youngest fan.

Shiro is waiting for him in the canteen. They agreed to meet at 1230 hours, during Shiro’s lunch break. When he walks into the spartan, chrome-covered room and sees Shiro stand up from his seat with a smile, Keith realizes from the kick in his chest that he’s still not used to seeing Shiro in glasses.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, voice low and rumbly as he pulls Keith into a tight hug. Keith tries not to melt. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You, too,” he says back, his heart full.

Keith makes himself pull away first. He smiles up at Shiro, so much taller and broader, more solid inside and out, and Shiro beams down at him in that way that makes Keith feel like the worthiest person in the world. Keith wants to hug him again and never stop.

He skitters his eyes away to pull out the metal chair and take a seat. Shiro sits down across from him and smiles. “So, what’s new?” he asks brightly, resting his chin in his hand in a way that makes the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the thick band on his finger, sending off a flash of silver light, and—

Keith swallows hard. He’s still not used to seeing Shiro in a wedding ring, either.

“Um, not much,” he says, looking down at his hands.

“How’s the Blade doing?” The words are an echo of Lance’s sister’s from last night, but sound so different in Shiro’s mouth. His voice heats Keith up from the inside, even when Keith’s not meeting his gaze. 

“Not bad,” he says cagily. Unable to stop the tendril of annoyance rising, he wonders, _And what does that mean, translated from Keith to human English?_

“Not bad, huh?” Shiro seems to muse. Keith looks up and sees Shiro regarding him, smiling slightly. “That’s not what I hear.”

Keith’s heart thuds, eyes widening slightly. What has Shiro heard? How they can’t find a new client to save their lives? How this entire humanitarian relief organization thing, which was mostly Keith’s idea, is turning into a colossal failure? How it’s all going so instantly to shit that any day now Kolivan is going to demote him, kick him out, have him dropped off on some distant planet like an unwanted dog on the side of the road?

“Uh…”

A smile breaks out on Shiro’s face. “I heard you guys just got a huge new rebuilding project from the Arusians,” he says, his voice soaked in pride in a way that makes Keith’s insides twist with undeserved praise. “Keith, that’s not ‘not bad.’ That’s _amazing_. You should be proud!”

Keith’s hands fidget hard while he stares down at them, his face flushing. “It’s not that big a deal, Shiro. We’ve worked with them a lot already. They know us. And ‘huge’ for the Arusians isn’t really all that—”

“Keith.”

Keith closes his mouth, looks up from under his bangs. Shiro is using his _gentle authority_ voice. The voice that Keith remembers lit his veins on fire when he was younger in a way that he doesn’t think anyone ever had before Shiro.

The way certainly no one has _since_ Shiro.

Shiro gives him a soft smile, and Keith has to fight his urge to squirm. It’s so _hard_ , being seen. Seen the way Shiro sees him, the way he doesn’t deserve but wants to so badly.

“It _is_ a big deal,” Shiro says. “It’s no wonder you needed a break, after all the work you put in to get this contract off the ground.”

“It really wasn’t all that—”

Shiro holds up a hand, his huge floating one. “Stop diminishing your accomplishments, Keith—”

“I’m not _diminishing_ them, Shiro,” Keith insists, “it’s really not that hard. The Arusians still love _Voltron_ , not the Blade. They’re doing it because of who I used to be, not because of anything I’ve done since the end of the war.” 

“Well…” Shiro sits back, crosses his arms in a way that makes Keith’s eyes beg to stare at his shoulders, his chest. “And why shouldn’t you take advantage of that? You as an organization have something that no one else does, after all. The former leader of Voltron.”

And Keith wants to protest, but more than that, he… he wants to let Shiro believe all of these things about him. That he’s accomplished and capable and deserving.

So he just shrugs and takes a sip of his water.

Shiro smiles, seeming to take this for Keith admitting defeat. (It’s not. What does a shrug translate to in human English, _Lance_?) “I hope you got to celebrate. Is that why you stayed with Lance? Were you up late partying?”

Keith snorts, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, right. We sat on the porch and drank maybe two beers each before we went to bed.”

“Sounds like a good night to me.” Shiro is still smiling, like Keith telling him he willingly socialized is just as worthy of praise as anything he’s done in his professional life.

(Well, maybe for Keith it is.)

“I bet Lance needed it, too. From what I hear, he doesn’t see much of anyone besides his family.”

Keith shrugs again. “His sister mentioned some woman… from a farmer’s market?”

“Really?” Shiro blinks, seeming genuinely surprised. “I heard through the grapevine that Lance is… Well, never mind.” He shakes his head, puts a smile back on. “I’m glad to hear he’s putting himself out there again.”

Keith narrows his eyes. Wonders if he should pry. Wonders if he… _cares_ enough to pry.

Eh, it’s Lance. He’ll probably tell Keith all about it eventually, in endless detail. Whatever it is.

“Anyway, the point is that you deserve to be proud of yourself, Keith. You’ve come such a long way since, well…” He chuckles, looking around them at the Garrison cafeteria. “Since you were first here. An astronomically long way.”

“...Is that supposed to be a pun?”

Shiro gives a coy shrug that has Keith groaning and rolling his eyes. “Okay, bad joke,” Shiro admits, “but my point still stands. You’ve become so much, Keith. I’m proud of you.”

Keith presses his lips together, sucking his lower one between his teeth. It’s true. In terms of accomplishments, in terms of self-confidence, in terms of his relationship with authority… Keith is almost an entirely different person.

But then again…

He lets himself looks at Shiro. Lets his eyes catch on him—his white hair, his scarred nose, his soft smile—before they have to fly away again. Lets himself hear his pounding heart, feel the flush of his skin.

Then again, some things haven’t changed a bit.

***

It must be a few Earth months before Keith has another day off. Before he can justify giving in to the deep, clawing urge he has to run away from these endless meetings.

Fucking _m_ _eetings_.

He considers Shiro’s apartment— _Shiro-and-Curtis’s apartment_ , he reminds himself—for barely a moment before pulling up Lance’s contact information. When he left last time, the McClains told him to come back whenever. They were happy to have him, glad to see he was doing well. Maya waved shyly from behind her dad’s leg. Lance clapped him on the back with a grin, called him _Classic Keith_ for his awkwardness in the face of familial kindness as he shoved him gently toward the pod.

Keith recalls the front porch, the cramped kitchen, the quilt on the air mattress on the floor of Lance’s room, with an odd warmth.

He presses **Call**.

It’s fully dark when he lands. Lance is the only one to greet him, a coat drawn around his shoulders against the chill. Their eyes meet in the shifting moonlight as Keith pads down the ramp from the pod, raising a weary hand.

Lance returns the gesture. Then he tilts his head as though a thought just occurred to him, and the next thing Keith knows, Lance yanks him forward into a quick, rough hug. Two hard pats hit Keith’s back, _one-two_ , and then Lance is pulling away just as quickly.

“Only took six years and an intergalactic war for reality as we know it for us to be on hugging terms,” he says. Keith can hear the smile in his voice, a slash of dull white in the dusk.

“I don’t really think we’re there yet,” he replies.

Lance barks out a laugh, rebundles himself in his coat, and ushers Keith to the dark house.

The farmhouse is silent inside. Keith catches the time on the stove, past midnight, as Lance leads him through the living room. He remembers the way, almost says as much, but then Lance pauses at the foot of the stairs to whisper about which ones creak the loudest, and Keith swallows his indignant protests.

Lance quietly opens the door to his room. Everything is as Keith remembers it, but for the small tabby cat that uncurls herself from the air mattress and jumps down to coil around his ankles.

“This is Luna,” Lance says quietly, reaching down to pet her. She stretches onto her hind legs and begins pawing at Lance’s thigh like it’s a scratching post. “She’s supposed to stay in the barn but she thinks she’s too cool for school— _ah! ¡Basta!_ ” He bats at her softly, and she detaches her claws from his pants. Wincing, he explains, “She’s spiky.”

Keith holds a hand out for Luna to sniff, lifting an eyebrow at Lance. “Luna because of space?”

“Yeah, we do naming schemes for every litter. She’s part of the solar system crew, but she thinks she’s special. It’s like she knew her siblings were all planets and she was a moon.” He shrugs his jacket off and throws it over the desk chair. “I’m gonna brush my teeth and do my face thing. Make yourself at home.”

While Lance is in the bathroom, Keith undresses down to his boxers, taking the time to study the room the way he didn't the last time he was here. It’s small but packed with memorabilia from Lance’s life: swimming trophies, movie posters, a stuffed blue lion about the same size as Luna, who sniffs Keith’s discarded pants with interest. (He’s grateful that his wolf seems to prefer to spend the nights on the porch, even when there’s a chill in the air.) The corkboard over his desk is covered in old-fashioned photobooth strips, Lance and Hunk looking so young they must have been in their Garrison days. Next to that is one of all six of them on Altea, seven if they count Allura’s statue. Keith feels a smile tugging at his mouth. He has the same picture clipped to the console of his pod, a rare personal touch.

He lets his tired eyes skim over the others, most of which are of Lance with his family or people Keith doesn’t know. In all of them, Lance is either smiling, big and genuine, or he’s striking a dumbass pose.

Then Keith takes a step farther, closer to Lance’s twin bed, piled high with pillows and quilts, and pauses. In a frame on Lance’s bedside table, to Keith’s surprise, there is a picture of him and Allura.

_Huh._

He didn’t know they took any pictures together. To be honest, it’s a little strange seeing Lance again at that age, without his Altean marks. Even stranger to see Lance… making that face.

Keith peers at it, squinting.

What _is_ that face? It’s certainly not one he’s ever seen on Lance in day-to-day life. It’s…

…awkward?

Keith frowns, leaning closer to the picture. It doesn’t make any sense. Lance McClain doesn’t look _awkward_. Lance McClain makes _other people_ awkward, with his loudness and his jokes and his _so much all the time_. Lance McClain certainly makes _Keith_ awkward.

He flicks his eyes back to the other shots on Lance’s corkboard. Finger guns. Big grins. That weird pose that everyone does where one arm is thrust out diagonally upwards with his face buried in the crook of his other elbow. _Confidence_. But _here_ —

Down the hallway, the bathroom door opens. The light switch shuts off with an audible click.

By the time Lance opens the bedroom door, Keith is buried under covers on the air mattress, a blanket pulled up to his chin.

Lance closes the door behind him softly. “Keith?” he whispers. “You awake?”

Keith chooses not to answer.

Lance hesitates for a moment in the doorway. Keith can feel him stalling. Then he shuts off the light, pads across the floor, and slides into his own bed. When Keith opens his eyes, he can see that the ceiling is covered in yellow-green, glow-in-the-dark stars.

In the early morning, Keith wakes up on the hard floor, the rubber of the air mattress flattened and deflated around him. Curled up at the base of the mattress, purring innocently on top of the only remaining air pocket, is Luna.

***

“Looks like Kosmo’s having fun.”

Keith pauses in mucking out one of the horse’s stalls to see Lance leaning on his own pitchfork, smiling. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, glistening beside his Altean mark. He’s watching Keith’s wolf chase their sheep from the pasture into the barn. The McClains’ old sheepdog looks on in what Keith reads as dawning obsolescence as the wolf teleports with ease to funnel the sheep exactly where he wants them.

“His name’s not Kosmo,” says Keith, hefting his shovel again.

“Oh yeah, you never liked that, huh. What do you call him, then?”

Keith shrugs. “I just call him my wolf.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“You _know_ what, Keith!” Lance huffs, a hand on his hip. Keith suspects that Lance wrangling him into helping around the farm has actually decreased his productivity. He needs both hands to gesture incredulously at Keith, after all. “How do you get his attention?”

“I whistle,” he says. “Or he just… already knows, somehow, that I want his attention.”

“Ugh, stupid telepathic space wolves,” Lance grumbles. He shakes his head, dismissing that quickly. “Doesn’t matter. He has to have a name!”

“And I’m sure he does have a name,” Keith says, hiding his smirk. “I just don’t know it.”

“Oh, please. You’re not still doing that ‘he’ll tell me his name when he’s ready’ thing, are you? It’s been years, dude! It’s a _dog_!”

“He’s just not ready to tell me.”

_“It’s a dog!”_

“Wolf, actually. My wolf.”

“Oh my god,” Lance groans. “I can’t believe you just— you won’t— _ugh!_ ” He drags a hand down his face. “You know what? I’m calling him Cupcake from now on, just to spite you. Kupcake with a K! Like Keith, because it’s _cute_!”

“And is ‘cute’ also spelled with a K?” Keith asks, hiding his amusement in a deadpan drawl.

“No,” Lance says, glaring hard, “with a _Q_.”

It’s easy to conceal his chuckle with a stormy frown as he upends a shovelful of muck into the wheelbarrow.

***

The next time Keith comes to Earth, the McClain farmhouse has a new acquisition: a porch swing. It’s wooden, unpainted, almost crude, but it draws Keith regardless, the sweating beer bottle in his hand practically itching to be nestled in the cup holder indentation on the arm rest.

Lance takes but a moment to join him. His weight settles hard, altering the rocking rhythm that Keith set with his body, making the chains above them creak. He turns to Keith with an easy smile.

“Nice, right?” he asks proprietarily.

Keith shrugs noncommittally, perennially unable to agree with Lance. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Put it up myself,” Lance says, and he slowly stretches one arm out across the back of the bench seat. His hand comes to rest somewhere near Keith’s shoulder. Keith’s skin prickles at the nearness of his fingertips. 

“Smooth.”

“Thanks. I still got it.” Lance clicks his tongue at Keith and winks.

Keith rolls his eyes.

“So what’s new with you lately, anyway? You seem to be heading back to the Milky Way more than usual.”

Keith nods ruefully. Meetings, meetings, and more meetings. “Yeah, the Blade—”

“Did you finally get the chance?”

Keith looks at him. Lance is grinning, the skin around his marks crinkling mischievously.

“…to…?”

“Dance.”

Keith’s eyes narrow. Lance is still grinning.

“Along the light of day…”

They stare at each other for a long moment in expectant silence.

Finally, Keith sighs. “If this is supposed to be a reference to something…”

Lance groans so hard he nearly melts right off the porch swing. “Train! It’s Train! It’s a song!”

“Oh.” He always feels like a fish out of water when Lance does this. “Well, I guess I could listen to it—”

“No, no, it won’t make any _sense_ if you just _listen_ to it.” Lance huffs, waving his hand despondently as he crawls back onto the bench to sit upright. “You have to, like, _osmose_ it over _years_ for it to be funny, Keith!”

“O...kay?”

“Yeah! They play it on the oldies station around here all the time. Lots of space metaphors and shit. It’s dumb, I just— Ugh, forget it.” He lets out one more big breath and turns back to Keith. “You were saying? The Blade?”

“Yeah. The Blade.” Keith blinks down at his beer. Frowns. “Never mind. It’s boring.”

“Well, probably.” Lance smiles, tucking a knee up on the bench so he’s facing Keith. “But tell me anyway. Can’t be worse than talking about the egg yield or what farmers’ markets are still active this time of year.”

Keith glances at him. He looks earnestly interested in a way that makes Keith shift uncomfortably. “Fine,” he says reluctantly. “We’re having a hard time getting relief contracts. That’s why I have so much time off lately.”

“Really?” Lance cocks his head. “I woulda thought there’d still be a ton left to do. People to help.”

“There are. They just don’t trust an organization that’s run by Galra.”

“And a former Paladin of Voltron!”

“Who’s half-Galra.”

“Oh. Right.” Lance’s face scrunches. “Well, that’s bullshit.”

His bluntness punches a laugh from Keith. “Yeah. It is.”

Lance grins over at him. “Maybe it’s the branding. How’s your SEO?”

“… _C_ EO?” Keith asks, deliberately obtuse.

“Ughh…”

Keith chuckles as Lance drags a hand down his exasperated face. 

“Of course you would grow a sense of humor the one time I’m trying to help you.”

“This is you helping?”

“Yeah! I know things. I _do_!” Lance insists, at Keith’s scoff. “I do all our social media, you know. Business may be bad for the Blade, but it’s booming for McClain Family Farms.”

Keith catches a blue glimmer. He jerks his head toward Lance, but there’s nothing there: only Lance looking back at him, eyebrows lifted with self-satisfaction. it must have been the porch light reflecting in his eyes. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup. Google it. We’re the premier small family farm in the state for produce, thanks to my social media savvy.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Right. And no thanks to the fact that the farm belongs to the family of the former Paladin of Voltron.”

“Oh, yes thanks to that,” Lance laughs easily. “ _Absolutely_ thanks to that! But I know how to capitalize on it.” He rests an elbow on the back of the swing and nudges Keith’s shoulder with a finger. “You should, too, buddy. Cash in your chips, you deserve a prize.”

Keith frowns down at his bottle, picking pensively at the label. _A prize_. He could almost laugh. The only “prize” he ever thought he would come out of this all with was Shiro and look where that got him. Sitting on a porch swing, drinking into the night with Lance because it hurts too bad to realize how quickly Shiro’s apartment became Shiro-and-Curtis’s apartment, and then Mr.-and-Mr.-Shirogane’s apartment.

There are worse places, though, he has to concede, than to be sitting in the cool night air, sipping a beer with Lance. Maybe this is a consolation prize.

“Maybe you oughta work on your branding,” Lance muses. “I haven’t seen anything new from you guys. Are you still using the same old logo?”

“You mean our symbol?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm.” Keith raises an eyebrow at Lance, who looks pensive. Keith is slowly growing used to the expression, but it still strikes him as strange. Too small for Lance’s face. Too staid. “Something wrong with that?”

“No,” Lance says quickly. “No, no, not _wrong_ , per se. It’s good to have continuity. But it’s a little, like, obscure? And not exactly reassuring. It’s very…”

“...Yeah?”

Lance rubs his chin, thinking hard. “... _Bladey_.”

“I mean…”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard it,” Lance huffs, waving a hand. “I’m just saying. You want people to feel warm and fuzzy when they look at you guys, not like they’re gonna get stabbed.”

Keith frowns. It’s strange to say it, but, “You may have a point…”

“Yeah, man, I know,” Lance laughs, kicking back so the swing sways. “Told you, I’m good at what I do. And seriously, play up the Voltron thing. People go nuts for it. _You_ should be front and center in all your branding, banging pots and pans: ‘Let – me – help – you! I – led – Voltron!’”

Lance looks so stupid as he does this booming automaton voice that Keith chuckles. “Shiro said basically the same thing."

“Smart dude.”

Keith’s frown deepens. He hates taking advice— _god_ , does he ever—but he’s coming to the end of his rope with these meetings.

He takes a swig of his beer, savoring the bitterness, so sharp he can taste it in his nose. It’s something from the back of the McClains’ fridge, hoppier than Lance and Marco’s Coronas and Heinekens, much more Keith’s style. The label has a little green nugget on it, grinning voraciously.

“I like this,” he says, tapping the bottle.

“Thank god,” Lance sighs, long-suffering. “He can be pleased.”

***

Lance has to brush a dusting of frost off the porch swing when Keith visits next. It’s late—probably too late, really, for them to stay up even later to talk—and there’s a cutting chill in the air, but somehow neither of them questions it. Lance met Keith’s pod with two beers, a folded blanket, and a familiar grin: a foregone conclusion.

“It got cold,” Keith observes, taking the beer from Lance as he sits down on the frosty wood.

“To match my heart,” Lance replies brightly, draping the blanket over both their laps.

Keith never knows how to answer when Lance says that sort of thing, so he just sips his beer.

“So,” Lance says, pulling his knee up onto the swing with an air of _let’s dish_ , “you know I gotta ask.”

Instantly, Keith seizes up. He peers warily over. “...What?”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, I’m not interrogating you for murder, dude. Relax.”

Keith allows his shoulders to lower a millimeter.

“Well, I guess I know for sure you’re not a Keith impostor,” Lance grumbles. “No, I was gonna ask about work.”

Keith’s shoulders lift even higher than before. Lance bursts out laughing.

“I take it not good.”

“I mean…” Keith grimaces. “There’s a reason I’m back so soon.”

“Aw, and here I thought it was because you missed your best buddy Lance.” He grins into Keith’s flat expression. “How’s branding? Did you implement any of my advice? I should send you an invoice, by the way. That shit was _golden._ ”

Reluctantly, Keith says, “I, uh, haven’t really had a chance to—”

“Ugh, _Keith_!” In that instant, Lance’s voice sounds just like it used to, creaky and indignant. “You _have_ to! I need to see your face on all Blade of Marmora merch. Keith Kogane t-shirts, Keith Kogane action figures!”

“Pretty sure those do exist,” Keith mumbles.

“Yeah, I know, I have the whole O.G. Paladin set, mint in box,” Lance says, smiling shamelessly. “But we need a new-and-improved Keith. Postwar pacifist Keith, now packaged with supply drops instead of swords.”

Keith chuckles. “I don’t think anyone would buy that one.”

“What, you don’t think anyone would be interested in the postwar Paladin set?” he jokes. “Older, beaten down, complete with disfiguring facial scars?” To Keith’s surprise, Lance gestures not to Keith’s cheek but up to his own face.

(The Altean marks…? Lance thinks they’re…)

It gives Keith pause, makes his tentative smile falter. It’s hard to imagine anyone thinking of those marks as disfiguring. Honestly, Keith thinks they enhance his face, if anything. Previously, Lance’s face was kind of infuriatingly perfect, likely due to the nighttime face regimen Keith has become much (sigh… _much_ ) better acquainted with since spending his nights on Earth here. Perfect but for this kind of _tautness_ around his eyes. Like he was always ready to protest. As though he _expected_ to be overlooked and was ready to seize on any minute opening to thrust his hands through and rip open, shouting over everyone else.

The marks, though, somehow relax those twitching muscles. Or maybe it’s just that Keith associates them with an older Lance, battle-weary, comfortable with silence and therefore comfortable with Keith.

But he must be quiet long enough for even this Lance to register the strangeness, or else his expression must betray his shock because Lance tilts his head and raps his knuckles against Keith’s shoulder with a smirk. “What? Sensitive topic, Kogane?”

Keith glances back uncertainly, his eyes flicking to the marks and back to Lance’s. “You think of those as scars?”

The smile falls from Lance’s face. Keith watches as he turns his body to face forward again rather than contorting himself toward Keith. He feels a strange tightness around his own eyes, in his head, watching Lance adjust to sit like a human being.

(It makes no sense. It’s the way you’re _supposed_ to sit on a bench swing. Why is it _sad_ to see Lance do it?)

When Lance speaks, his voice is quiet. “They’re permanent marks on my skin. What else am I supposed to think of them as?”

A fair point, Keith supposes. “…Tattoos?”

Lance sighs. “I mean, I guess. But most people _choose_ to get those. Are they really any more like tattoos than scars?”

He gives it some thought. “Tattoos can be pretty.”

There’s a brief moment in which Keith realizes what he’s said. How Lance will take it. When Lance turns to him, there’s a tug at the corner of his mouth that makes Keith scowl defensively, his shoulders hunching.

“Aw, you think I’m pretty, Keith?” he simpers.

“…Pretty stupid.”

Lance tuts, a smile curling up his lips. “You can do better than that, man.”

“You don’t have to make a big deal out of it,” Keith sighs, crossing his arms. “I already told you I thought you were cute.”

“Yeah, but that was _past tense_.” Lance’s body is twisting again toward Keith, but now it’s the last thing he wants. Infuriating how Lance can make him want to comfort him one moment and punch him the next. “This news is current. An ongoing situation.”

“It’s not, really,” Keith mutters, taking a hostile sip of his beer as Lance leans an elbow on the back of the swing and drifts toward him. “And I said they _can be_ pretty, anyway. So…”

“So…?” Lance is smirking widely, his eyes dark and shining in the porchlight.

Keith glowers down at his bottle, frustrated at the heat that’s crawling up his neck, burning his ears. It’s just _Lance_ , for fuck’s sake. Why does his sudden scrutiny have Keith’s skin tingling? “…So it’s all relative.”

He hears Lance chuckle, and shift, and then Lance’s hand is at his chin. He flinches back involuntarily, which only makes Lance laugh harder, so he sets his jaw and lets Lance turn his face into the light, determined not to give Lance the pleasure of getting a reaction.

When he grudgingly meets Lance’s gaze, Lance’s eyes are on his cheek. A thumb brushes softly against the skin. His scar, he realizes.

“I think you’re pretty, too, dude,” Lance says, amused.

Like that’s what Keith was fucking waiting for.

Keith glares at him, frustration rising, skin prickling beneath Lance’s fingers. “I don’t care.”

And Lance _laughs._ He laughs, and it makes Keith want to scream. “Yeah, okay,” he says indulgently, and rocks forward to catch Keith’s bottom lip between his.

Keith flinches again, and Lance _laughs_ _again_ , and that makes Keith feel almost murderous. Hot. He presses forward almost angrily against Lance’s smiling mouth, shoving Lance backward an inch. He bites at his lips—not hard, just enough to tell Lance he ought to _tread lightly_ —but it only seems to amuse him. He brushes his thumb over Keith’s tingling cheek, cupping his jaw, and before Keith knows it, the kiss belongs to Lance again. Lance, who’s running his tongue confidently along Keith’s lip, coaxing his mouth open so he can slip inside with a low, praising hum that Keith is annoyed to realize has heat blooming up his spine.

Praising. Encouraging. As if Keith would kiss Lance if he didn’t already _want_ to, as if Keith’s not just as in control of this situation as Lance is, as if—

Fuck, Lance is a good kisser, though.

And just like that, as though Lance could _hear_ his thoughts and was only waiting for something he could lord over Keith forever, Lance eases back, their mouths releasing softly. When Keith opens his eyes (and when the hell did he close them? fuck), Lance is smiling at him in the dark.

Keith looks away immediately, frowning. “What the hell was that for?”

Lance shrugs, settling back. “Just thought we should.”

Keith whips his head to stare at him incredulously. Like that’s a fucking reason to kiss someone. _“Why?”_

“I was curious.” He reaches for the beer he put in the cupholder. “Weren’t you?”

Keith frowns. It’s not like he gave it a _lot_ of thought, but… Lance’s lips are always so shiny, look so soft, and Keith has been tipsy-to-drunk around Lance enough times. It was bound to happen, the stray thought of _how would he?_ It would be weirder if it didn’t, honestly, with how Lance looks these days, playful and somber at the same time.

“No,” he lies.

“Mm,” Lance hums. The note of nonchalant amusement in it rankles, as though Keith is an open book and Lance has just found a typo, a glaring error, the wrong ‘there’ there. “My bad, then.”

Keith sips at his beer, annoyance itching at the back of his neck. They sit in silence for a minute. Another moment. Another. _Another_ —

“Well?”

Lance, the fucker, looks surprised that Keith’s spoken, his beer halfway to his lips. “Well what?”

“Did it _satisfy your curiosity_?” Keith asks, making his voice drip with sweet contempt and not his own… not curiosity. _Not_ curiosity.

“Yep,” says Lance, a little brightly. “Pretty much how I thought it’d go.”

And what…

What the fuck does _that_ mean!?

Keith narrows his eyes at Lance, scowling hard, before he realizes Lance isn’t looking and therefore the effect is lost.

“So you just,” Keith says slowly, “kiss people these days.”

“Uhh, sometimes, I guess?” says Lance with a shrug, hooking one ankle over a knee and setting the swing rocking. Keith keeps both feet planted so his side remains stationary; the chains above them creak as they awkwardly swivel. “If I think we’re both feelin’ it. Sorry, if that was weird for you. Like if you only kiss people you’re dating or don’t get around a lot or whatever—”

Keith scoffs.

Lance angles his head inquisitively. “What?”

(He has to _explain_ his scoff? A scoff is self-explanatory! The fuck. Ugh.)

He crosses his arms, looking off over the dark lawn. “I get around,” he explains, smirking thinly.

“Really?”

Keith whips his head around at note of bemusement in Lance’s voice, finding Lance’s mouth is pressed into a little curve of surprise. It sets a different kind of heat creeping up Keith’s neck, one he’s more familiar with Lance arousing in him. _Much_ more familiar.

“Yeah, I do. Guess you’re not the only one who thinks I’m _pretty_ ,” Keith says, eager to throw that weird shit back in Lance’s face. Eager to see it smack and itch, get Lance just as… as _frustrated_ as Keith feels right now.

But Lance only laughs. _Again_. The sound crackles hot through Keith’s veins, making him see red.

Because what the fuck is with Lance these days? It’s like he’s impervious to annoyance! It makes no sense! When the hell did Lance become this… this… _impassive observer_ to everything? All open amusement and laughing blue eyes, a chuckle and a wink and a refusal to rise to the bait? Who the hell gave him permission?

Keith grits his teeth, clenching a hand on the armrest. “And just what is so funny?”

“Nothing, dude, I just…” Lance shakes his head with a smile. “I just missed this.”

The tension evaporates.

_Huh?_

“Can I get you another beer?” Lance looks pointedly from Keith’s face to his empty bottle and back again. “I just remembered I picked up a six-pack of that IPA you said you liked. It’s been in the cellar for, like, months, but… beer keeps, right?”

Keith is staring. He knows he is, but… _the fuck?_

“’Kay, how ’bout this,” says Lance, slapping a hand on his thigh. “I’ll bring back one of each, the regular and the IPA, and you can take your pick. I’m easy. I mean, personally, I think IPAs taste like I’m drinking a pine tree, but it’s chill. I ate green space goo for however fucking long, I can deal.”

Gingerly, he reaches over to pluck Keith’s bottle from his hands. Keith lets it go dumbly and watches Lance as the screen door swings shut behind him.

_Okay… what the hell?_

This night is not going at _all_ how Keith expected it to. Sure, he and Lance have become increasingly comfortable around each other, usually with the help of a beer or four. That started at Shiro’s wedding, when Lance…

Keith’s eyes narrow sharply.

When Lance told Keith he was attracted to him.

It’s not like Keith forgot about that, per se. It has certainly colored his interactions with Lance, made Lance more attractive to _him_ , too. But in the years since he first left Earth, Keith has grown used to being desired. It is unexceptional for someone to look him over approvingly, and, if Keith is approving of that someone, as well, to find himself sexually satisfied sooner or later. It is unfailingly casual and utterly common.

The Lance that he knows, typically, is neither.

Lance cares. Lance strives. Lance romances and, more importantly, _romanticizes_.

Is Lance romanticizing them?

If so, Keith needs to shut it down. The sooner the better.

“Wow, this double IPA looks _sooo_ good,” Lance announces theatrically as he nudges the screen door open with his hip. He’s holding the bottle aloft, reading rapturously from the label as he slowly approaches. “Dry-hopped? Ultra-bitter? _Eight percent?_ Gee, I sure hope Keith doesn’t want _this_ one. I wanna keep _this_ Christmas tree potion all to myself!”

He comes to a stop beside the porch swing, wiggling both bottles in Keith’s face.

“Which one do you want? This delicious lager, brewed with a number of hops adequate for a mere human palate? Or _this_? This redwood forest in a bottle, full of tastes no mortal tongue has ever delighted in, that only the bravest, most manliest of men could possibly endure? Actually, you know what, Keith? I’ll just take this one, I don’t think you could handle—”

“Just give it to me already,” Keith grumbles, snatching it from Lance’s hand.

Lance’s grin only widens as he plops down beside him, setting them both swinging. “Aha, you fell for my ruse,” he exclaims. “I actually _wanted_ you to take the stinky IPA. That’s called reverse psychology, my friend.”

He settles his arm over the back of the bench seat, hand brushing Keith’s shoulder. Keith glares at it. Shifts his gaze to Lance’s profile as he takes a swig of his lager.

He looks down at his own beer. It feels familiar, calls up memories of the last time he was here. Dark, thick bottle, with a cartoonish label that looks like a little green nugget of weed wearing sunglasses.

Actually, maybe Lance can satisfy _his_ curiosity about something.

“Does this have CBD in it?” he asks, checking the fine print the way he did last time. “I’ve always wondered.”

“Uh, no?” Lance tilts his head. “I don’t think so. Why would it have CBD in it?”

“Because of the weed.” Obviously.

“What?”

Has he seriously never looked? Keith points to the cartoon, lifting the bottle for Lance. Lance is quiet, studying it.

Then he bursts into raucous, almost wheezing laughter.

Keith flinches in surprise. Narrows his eyes. “What.”

Lance looks at him and then his face twists up again. He bends nearly in half, soles thudding on the wood deck in blatant glee.

Keith sets his jaw. _“What.”_

“Dude,” Lance chokes, “it’s a _hop_.”

What?

“ _What_?”

Lance is nearly in stitches, clutching at his stomach as he throws his head back. He swipes at his eyes and, okay, that’s a little much. “A hop,” he repeats. “Like what they put in beer? What they put _excessively_ into the beer that _you like_? That li’l buddy’s your best, pineconey friend, and you don’t even recognize him?” He reaches over to tap on the bottle with a dull ring, grinning.

Keith stares in shock. “ _That’s_ a hop?”

Lance snorts, threatening to start laughing again. “Yeah, man. How did you not know that?”

“How am I supposed to know what a hop looks like?” he huffs, feeling heat creeping up his face. “I’m— I’m not a farmer!”

“I don’t know that because I’m a _farmer._ I know it just from, like, living in the world!”

“Well, I don’t live in the _world_ ,” Keith says, indignant. “I live in outer space, and—”

Lance sputters over Keith’s attempt to save face, still delighted. “Have you seriously been going through life thinking all these beers have weed in them? Just, like, _all_ the beers are choosing little weed nugs as their mascots for _no_ reason?”

“That’s why I asked if there was CBD in it! I thought it was weird!”

“Well, I think _you’re_ weird,” Lance replies, grinning widely, as if that settles it. He takes another sip of his own beer, setting his ankle over his knee and his elbow on the back of the bench again. He knocks a knuckle against Keith’s shoulder fondly.

Keith looks at his hand with a grimace. Thinks back to that kiss. Lance’s strange mix of teasing and kindness. He fixes Lance with a steady stare. “I don’t like you,” he says bluntly.

“Right back atcha, big guy.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“Yeah, samesies. I mean, if by some miracle—” Lance pauses. Looks over. Cocks his head.

Keith watches him with narrowed eyes.

“Wait, did you think I…? _Ohh_ …” Lance lets his head fall back on a laugh, as though it’s all become clear. “Because I kissed you?”

Frowning, Keith glances at the bottle in his hand. “Well, yeah, and…”

“Oh, the beer? I mean, that was just because I’m a nice person, dude, but you probably— you’re probably not— Oh, sure, I see, I get it.” Lance nods thoughtfully, as though Keith has made some good points and he just hadn’t thought of it that way.

Keith squints at him. “So, you don’t…”

“Oh, no,” Lance laughs with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “No, man, I’m, like, fully dead inside. Closed for business, out to pasture, one-and-done. No need to worry your pretty little mullet about me wanting to tie you down, space cowboy.”

Keith thinks there’s a lot there to unpack. All he says is, “It’s not a mullet.”

“It’ll always be a mullet in the endless black hole where my heart should be,” Lance says cheerily.

Again, a lot to unpack.

Later, maybe. For now, Lance is still looking at him curiously. “Wait, so is that why you were weird about the kiss?”

“ _No_ ,” Keith says indignantly. “I was weird about the kiss because it came out of fucking nowhere. And actually…” Now that he’s thinking about it… “I was not _weird_ about it. _You_ were weird about it. ‘That went pretty much how I expected.’ Who _says_ that? What does that even _mean_?” He lifts his palm by his face, suspicious.

Lance laughs. “It means you kissed like I thought you would.”

“And what does _that_ mean!?”

“Too hard.” And Lance grins, like it’s the funniest fucking bullshit that’s ever been said.

Which it _isn’t_.

Keith glares at him. “I do not _kiss too hard_.”

“You so do.”

“I don’t.”

“Pretty sure I’m gonna have a fat lip, actually.”

Lance’s tone is making Keith think that he’s joking, but he still can’t let it go. He can’t allow Lance to have said these words.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t kiss me out of fucking nowhere,” he grumbles.

“Hmm… something a bad kisser would say.”

 _“Hey.”_ Keith’s voice is too sharp, now; he’s letting his feelings show, and it’s only amusing Lance further. He can tell. He looks fucking delighted. “I’m an excellent kisser. It’s not my fault I kiss more… passionately than you’re used to.”

Lance shrugs, spreading his hands wide, and now he’s using his _I’ll be the bigger man_ voice, the voice that Keith thinks he hates more than almost any other. “Hey, man, it’s fine.”

Oh god, it’s setting his hair on end.

“Maybe we just have different kissing styles. Different strokes, right? I like to kiss someone in a way that, you know, makes sure they’re enjoying it, bring them along with me on the _journey_ of the kiss—”

“The journey.”

“And _you_ …”

Keith scowls. “Uh-huh?”

“…like to kiss someone like you’re holding them at gunpoint.”

Keith continues to scowl.

“Or swordpoint, I guess, would be more—”

Before Keith knows it, his hand is fisted in Lance’s shirt, yanking him forward so they’re nose to nose. He wants it to shock him, but it doesn’t; Lance only grins wider, his eyes sparkling. Keith doesn’t miss how they flick down and back up. Knows that Lance doesn’t miss how Keith’s do the same.

“Proving my point,” Lance murmurs gleefully, millimeters away. His breath smells yeasty, sweet.

“I’m not gonna kiss you,” Keith growls. “So stop begging.”

He releases Lance’s shirt, shoving him back. Lance goes with a laugh. A laugh that makes heat creep up Keith’s neck.

If he keeps pushing this…

“Man, who’da thought!” Lance muses loudly, settling back. “Finally I find something I’m better at than the great Keith Kogane.”

…So he’s not gonna stop pushing this. Keith practically grinds his teeth. Typical Lance.

“If only they’d had kissing as an elective at the Garrison! I would’ve aced all _those_ simulations.”

Ignore him and he’ll stop.

 _Ignore him_.

“Bet _I_ woulda been Shiro’s favorite, then, huh?”

Keith’s fingers twist in Lance’s shirt again. This time he doesn’t stop inches away; he jerks Lance to him so abruptly Lance has to catch himself against the back of the seat, and Keith crushes their lips together. Immediately, he’s forcing Lance’s lips to part and snaking his tongue inside, reveling in the sharp breaths that Lance is drawing in through his nose as he tries to keep up.

 _I’ll show you “too hard,”_ he thinks savagely.

He hears a _kuh-clunk_ as Lance clumsily sets his bottle on the side table, feels Lance’s fingertips crawling up his neck to his working jaw, trying to gentle him, trying to take control, and Keith is _not_ in the mood to give it up. But he also knows that right now, with the way his teeth are sinking into Lance, the way he’s sucking punishingly at his lips, he’s only proving Lance right, and he doesn’t want that either.

God, he doesn’t want that.

Fire burns in his veins, and it’s equal parts exasperation, stubbornness, and the sensation of Lance’s nails skating over the skin just below his ear.

With their lips still connected, he catches Lance’s wrist in his hand and pulls it away, holds it fast inches from his face. The movements of Lance’s mouth falter for just a second, and Keith, all blazing, gloating heat, knows he’s in control again.

Determinedly, he allows his own lips to slacken, forces himself to kiss Lance not exactly _softly_ but… maybe sensuously. He makes his mouth almost lush, luxuriant with the supple press of his tongue. A surprised hum of pleasure vibrates from Lance’s throat. His wrist goes loose in Keith’s fingers, both their hands falling slowly to their laps as Keith angles his head more deeply, almost rocking their mouths against one another as they come together and apart and together again, flame flickering in his core, until finally he splays his palm against Lance’s collarbone and pushes him gently but firmly back, their lips separating with a delicate noise in the night.

Lance’s eyes are heavy-lidded, glittering dazedly, when they meet Keith’s.

Hoarsely, he says, “So you’ve got range.”

***

They don’t spend the rest of the night making out or anything. Keith is satisfied he’s proven himself, and Lance, apparently cowed, doesn’t tease. He does occasionally glance over, though, appraising over his beer, and Keith recognizes something in his dark eyes, something he feels growing in his own gut. Something that was planted the night of Shiro’s wedding, a seed of acknowledged attraction that has only been fed and cultivated tonight but that Keith’s not ready to harvest.

And, it seems, neither is Lance.

They finish their beers and conversation and retire upstairs, as normal. Keith undresses perfunctorily, uncaring that Lance walks in as he is halfway out of his jeans. Lance spares only a moment’s glance before stripping off his own pants and then his overshirt, almost competitively nonchalant. 

Keith ignores the raised eyebrow he gets as he kneels beside the air mattress. “Did you find the puncture?” he asks, running his hands over the material.

Lance yawns, stretching luxuriously so his undershirt rides up around his hipbones. Keith almost rolls his eyes. So transparent. “Think so. I put duct tape over it.”

“Sure that’ll work?”

“Nope. But maybe if someone didn’t sleep with knives strapped to them…”

“For the last time, Lance, it was not my _knife_ , it was your stupidly sharp cat.”

“Sure, blame it on the cat…”

Lance shoots him a grin as Keith slides, scowling, under the quilt. He rolls onto his side, his back to Lance and his soft lips and his broad shoulders stretching his white undershirt. The mattress shifts beneath him, the heavy plastic already loosening under his weight.

Lance breathes a laugh, pulls back the covers, and slides into his twin bed.

And Keith is there, on the slowly deflating air mattress.

He can hear Lance turn over, huffing uncomfortably, just audible over the nearly silent whistling of the breath leaving the rubber through whatever microscopic puncture was left by Luna’s pinprick claws. It’s cold on the floor, the chill from the wintery night seeping in through the wooden boards that he knows he will wake up plastered to. His brain prickles, his neck prickles, his ears prickle, listening to the whistle, the tossing, the turning.

_“Ugh.”_

He throws off his quilt and rolls off the mattress, already flimsy. His knee is on Lance’s bed nearly before either of them clocks it.

“Uh—”

“Shut up.”

Keith rips the sheets back and shoves his body under them, hardly caring how close Lance is. Why should he? He knows Lance probably minds it as little as he does.

As he slides under the sheets, the warmth of Lance’s body is not even a negative, not even something he has to _deal with_. It settles against his skin easily, comfortably, within moments: Keith on his back, Lance curled on his side, resting an arm across Keith’s abdomen, his head on the pillow nosing against Keith’s jaw.

He can practically taste Lance’s amusement when he breathes, “Think we’re here yet, Kogane?”

Keith snorts and adjusts, slinging one arm over Lance’s shoulders. Because they have, like, _no_ space and that’s what’s most comfortable. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” he grumbles.

Lance hums sleepily. “Y’oughta know better by now,” he slurs against Keith’s shoulder, teetering on the precipice of dreams.

And there’s something about Lance’s sleep-muffled tones, something about Lance’s husky breath on his skin, that lulls Keith quickly to sleep. The weight of the quilt slowly deflates the air mattress on the floor beside them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy bottom keith week, apparently! obviously no bottoming in this chapter but it's there in spirit.
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter.


	3. Too Afraid To Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, all, a **quick tw** for this chapter (struck through to help people scrolling past avoid spoilers; if strikethrough is too hard to read, copy & paste into another doc/window/URL bar, etc.): ~~dissociation, including dissociation during sex. the sex is consensual; keith is just feeling a lot going into it and he flashes back to when he had sex with clone-shiro -- that "mentions of past keith/kuron" tag, y'all.~~

Traditionally, Shiro and Pidge have been Keith’s only steady contact with the former Paladins. He gets texts from Shiro once a week or so, asking how he is, how work is going. Pidge, in contrast, will go silent for weeks at a time and then send him about thirty memes in one night. Keith dutifully marks them with hearts and sends none back.

It’s a sustainable amount of contact for him.

Now, though, Lance has joined them. 

From Lance, Keith receives only pictures, and only through that one app that Pidge made him get ages ago but he never posted to. He thinks the photos are from the account Lance uses to promote the farm. The fields at sunrise. Lance’s brothers tilling the soil. Lance elbow-deep in mulch. Lance sitting on an overturned pail beside a cow, straw in his hair. Lance holding an outrageously large eggplant, overlaid with a sweating emoji.

Twenty thousand likes.

So maybe Lance knows a thing or two about presentation after all.

Keith, for his part, never responds. Never engages.

(Well, not anymore.)

One time, he received a video of the McClains’ sheepdog chasing Lance with a hose in its mouth, spraying him relentlessly as he ran away giggling, his white t-shirt soaked through. Caption: _found in the archive,_ _rare footage of Voltron paladin training._

Keith took the app up on its offer to replay the video. He was pretty sure he could see Lance’s dark nipples through the translucent fabric as he ducked shrieking out of frame.

His replay was interrupted by a text from Lance: _guess ur gettin thirsty out in space ;)_

Keith never replayed anything from Lance after that.

Still, thirty-five thousand likes on that video is nothing to sneeze at. In fact, Lance gets a huge uptick in engagement on anything he posts that references his tenure as a Paladin.

So perhaps it’s not a coincidence that things with the Blade also pick up around the time Keith decides to take a bit of a different approach.

The planet they're trying to court this time never formally joined the Voltron Coalition, but according to some market research the Blade paid out the ass for, its residents supposedly bought copious merchandise from that ridiculous television show. And Keith…

Well, Keith doesn’t go so far as to wear his Paladin _armor_ , exactly, but he does wear red—one of the jackets that Coran had designed for them, with the Voltron V stylized across the back. And when he shakes hands with the planet’s delegate, introduces himself as Keith Kogane with as close to a polite smile as he can muster, and watches their eyes drag over his outfit, he knows immediately and without a doubt that they’ll be getting the contract.

And they get the contract.

So maybe Lance really _does_ know a thing or two.

***

What with the uptick in real work and the downtick in pointless meetings, Keith finds himself drawn back to Earth less and less. It’s phoebs before Shiro’s texts begin to come more quickly, but most of them go ignored in favor of work.

He even gets one from Lance—an actual text, not just a picture: _u in town for xmas?_ He won’t be, though. He tells himself he’ll respond later, but then the rebuilding work distracts him, and before he knows it, movements and then phoebs have passed without him replying. 

Then he starts to get texts from Shiro. Birthday texts.

Shiro’s birthday is a big deal, because it only happens every four years. Keith has only spent two actual February 29ths with Shiro. One was in the Garrison, just before Kerberos. Shiro asked if Keith wanted to join him and Adam for cake and a movie, and Keith felt like his entire body was on fire. He had perched at the very end of the couch, studiously not touching anyone for the whole night; had said barely two words to Adam _or_ Shiro, too focused on the fact that he was in Takashi Shirogane’s living quarters. That Takashi Shirogane slept and ate and (one of the first times he could specifically remember having a thought like this) probably fucked his boyfriend here.

The other was about a year after the end of the war. Curtis was in the picture but as a nebulous blob of a person whom Keith had yet to fully acknowledge. Shiro asked all of the Paladins over for dinner and cake, but only Keith stayed the night. In the guest room, sure, but the guest room that Shiro had decorated with some red accent pillows and casually called “Keith’s room.” Keith had laid out in the very center of the full-sized bed, nuzzled into the memory foam mattress topper, and hugged one of those dumb pillows to sleep, breathing in Shiro’s fabric softener and ignoring how Shiro had to leave the apartment early to make brunch reservations with the guy he was seeing.

It’s hard to believe it’s been four years since then, Keith thinks as he pulls up to the Garrison-appointed living quarters. The building hasn’t changed much in that time. As well-appointed and state-of-the-art as the public-facing Garrison facilities are, the housing was built during a resurgence in nostalgia for space exploration in the 1960s and 1970s and reflects it in all the worst ways. Still the same intercom system, the same godawful sound when Shiro buzzes him in, the same rickety elevator carrying Keith to the fifth floor, the same ugly carpeting and the same faux-wood door to unit 506.

Keith doesn’t hear anything beyond the door. No music, no talking. His eyebrows knit briefly before he decides to knock anyway.

Within moments, he hears footsteps in the hallway. His stupid heart does the same shit it always does, beginning to leap, just before the door is pulled open, and—

“Keith,” Shiro breathes. The smile spreading across his face stokes that familiar warmth in Keith’s gut. He tugs him into a hug with a hand on his upper back.

“Hi, Shiro,” Keith says into his shoulder.

“So glad you made it.” Shiro holds him at arm’s length to look at him fondly.

“I mean, it’s not every year you have a birthday,” Keith says with a wry smile.

Shiro laughs. “Not a lot of people who can say that!” He steps aside, holding the door for Keith. “Come in, come in. You know where to put your jacket.”

And Keith does know—he knows which door is the coat closet and which holds the water heater—but when he walks in, he realizes with a sick feeling in his heart just how long it’s been since he’s been in Shiro’s apartment.

Since he started staying with the McClains, he hasn’t exactly gone out of his way to visit Shiro where he lives. He still often sees Shiro for lunch or even just coffee, but it’s usually at the Garrison canteen. Sometimes, if Keith visits on a rare weekend, it’s at a café downtown that Shiro likes for its vegan options.

So maybe it’s _his_ fault that the apartment he walks into is almost unrecognizable.

First of all, the paint color is different. It used to be eggshell white. Clean, neutral; Garrison-approved and Garrison-issued. Keith liked it. Or, well, he didn’t ever _think_ about it, he supposes, which is as good as liking something, right? Something like paint color anyway.

Now, the walls are… Well, the walls in the foyer are still white, but the one across the way, the main wall you see when you walk in, is a deep charcoal.

(Keith’s nose wrinkles at it. Aren’t you, like… not supposed to paint walls dark colors? He thinks he’s heard that somewhere before. A tickle of annoyance attached to the information tells him it was most likely from Lance.)

And that’s not all. Where the wall used to have a few framed photographs of Shiro’s family, his graduation—even one of Shiro and Keith—now hangs a huge painting, taking up nearly the whole wall. It’s all bold splashes of color, blues and purples and spatters of white, but no discernible shapes. 

“What is that?” Keith asks quietly, staring at it as he shrugs off his jacket.

“Curtis’s mother was a painter,” Shiro says, regarding the canvas with a small smile. “It was one of the last pieces she did before she got sick.”

Right. Keith vaguely remembers someone saying something about Curtis’s mother at the wedding. Something about how she would have wanted to be there… It was sad. Keith knew it was sad. But Keith was also not capable of feeling sympathetic for Curtis at the time.

His eyes don’t leave the wall as he follows Shiro into the living room.

(The painting is… big. Too big. Who needs a painting that big?)

(Apparently, he still isn’t feeling sympathetic for Curtis.)

The breakfast bar, at least, hasn’t changed. The same faux-marble countertops, the same tall chairs tucked under it. Keith realizes he’s still holding his jacket (too distracted by the painting), so he just drapes it over the back of one of the chairs and takes a seat.

There’s a glass bowl full of lemons in the center of the counter.

Keith stares at it. Slowly he reaches out and taps the glass with his fingernail. It makes a ringing, bell-like sound. “You use a lot of lemons?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Well, I mean, I guess sometimes,” Shiro amends with a laugh, fishing something out of the fridge, “but they’re mostly just decorative. Don’t they look nice?”

Keith narrows his eyes at the lemons. “I didn’t know a fruit could be decorative.”

“Curtis has an eye for these things.”

“Mm.”

“All right, so,” Shiro says, popping up from the fridge with two bottles in his hand, “I remembered that you like IPAs, and Curtis recommended this variety pack, so would you rather have the one with the tiger on it or the one with the Brussels sprout?”

Keith whips his gaze away from the decorative lemons. Looks at Shiro, smiling sincerely and holding the beers. Down to the bottles. Back to Shiro.

Still smiling. Still sincere.

So he really does not seem to be doing it as a joke at Keith’s expense. Does not seem to have heard about Keith’s mistake from Lance. Even though honestly Keith would not put it past Lance to put Shiro up to this, just to fuck with him.

“What?” Shiro asks, confused.

“It’s not a Brussels sprout,” Keith finally says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s a hop.”

Shiro’s eyebrows pinch together. He turns the bottles to his face to study them. “A hop?”

“Like, the things that go in beer?” (This can never get back to Lance.) “That IPAs are known for?”

“Oh.” Shiro blinks at it. “I didn’t know that’s what they looked like.”

Keith knows he’s full-on smirking now. (God, this can _really_ never get back to Lance.) “Have you seriously been thinking it was a Brussels sprout this whole time?” 

“That’s what it looks like!”

Keith decides to let up. (A concept that Lance does not understand.) He laughs and holds out a hand. “Just give it to me. Drink your white wine spritzer or whatever, old man.”

Shiro fixes him with a deeply unintimidating glare as he hands over the hop-laden beer. “I’ll have you know that according to the calendar, I’m only eight years old.”

“So I guess just the spritzer part, then,” Keith replies.

They order takeout from that vegan café, and Shiro goes to pick it up. Keith offers since it’s Shiro’s birthday, but Shiro insists. Keith has come a long way, he’s probably tired, he can take the time to pick out a movie for them to watch, et cetera… So Keith takes advantage of his time alone in the apartment to survey the other things that have changed.

A _lot_ of things have changed.

Abstract paintings lining the walls. A bowl of fragrant dried flower petals in the bathroom. Pictures from the wedding outside the door to Shiro’s bedroom. Keith is in some of them, smiling with his lips pressed tight together. It’s the bare-minimum smile he used in all of his school pictures, while the photographer called from behind the lens to try to get him to stop scowling: “Say, ‘Macaroni and cheese!’ Say, ‘Girls have cooties!’”

Ugh.

Then Keith turns the doorknob to the guest room. To _his_ room.

He stops in the doorway.

The full-sized bed is gone. The red pillows are gone, too. In their place is a large piece of drop cloth across the floor and an easel in the center. A twin bed is shoved into the corner, made up with a plain yellow comforter and draped in an afghan. There’s a stuffed animal sitting on it that Keith doesn’t recognize, a ratty teddy bear of no significance.

Beside the bed, a heavy wooden desk sports a desktop computer that Keith knows was in Shiro’s room. Above it are all of the pictures that used to hang on that formerly-white-now-charcoal wall.

Shiro in a cap and gown. Shiro and Keith pre-Kerberos. Even the picture of all of them on Altea, four years ago. 

All of it, here. Tucked away. In a space that’s only Shiro’s, the way the whole apartment used to be.

The floor seems to lurch beneath him. He’s cut adrift, untethered to the ground, and if he lost his footing he would only fall upwards aimlessly into the sky.

(He could float away forever and no one would ever notice—)

“Keith?”

He’s not sure how he didn’t hear Shiro returning, but he flinches the voice calling from the kitchen. It lassoes him, drags him back. He heaves a shaky breath before nearly slamming the door behind him.

On reemerging from the short hallway, he finds Shiro pulling biodegradable takeout containers from a paper bag. “Did you pick a movie?” Shiro asks, smiling.

(Grounding.)

Keith pretends to have picked a movie. It’s one he hasn’t seen before but he thinks Lance talked about recently. Shiro’s eyes light up when Keith suggests it; apparently he has been meaning to watch it, too.

“You know, it’s _your_ birthday,” Keith says as he sets his takeout container and beer on the coffee table. “You could just pick whatever _you_ want to watch. I didn’t even bring you a present…”

“You being here is present enough for me, Keith,” Shiro answers simply, his eyes on the screen as he navigates to the movie, and Keith feels his entire face go warm.

How does Shiro _say_ stuff like that? Like it’s the easiest thing in the world, being open and sincere?

Keith doesn’t reply. _Can’t_ reply. He only takes a bite of his fried chick’n sandwich and settles in for the film, ears burning.

They’re most of the way through the movie and Keith is nearly finished with his third beer when a key turns in the door. Shiro sits forward eagerly at the sound, pushes himself to his feet before the door’s even open.

_“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”_

Keith’s stomach drops.

“Oh my goodness,” Shiro is laughing, a smile splitting his face as Curtis steps through the door carefully balancing a cake covered in lit candles. “Look at you— What are—” 

“Shh, I’m trying to sing,” Curtis laughs back. _“Happy birthday, dear Takashi…”_

Keith watches in silence as Shiro approaches the man and the cake. Shiro blows out the candles, and Curtis makes a low _woo_ noise in congratulations. Keith wonders if he should stand but he feels frozen. 

He settles for pausing the movie. It’s almost over.

“I thought you weren’t going to be back until tomorrow,” Shiro says, his face full of open disbelief.

“You only get a real birthday once every four years,” Curtis replies, sliding the cake onto the breakfast bar. “Of course I wasn’t going to miss it. Hi, Keith, good to see you,” he calls cheerily into the living room.

At that, Keith decides he should probably stand. “Hi, Curtis.”

“Come get some cake,” Shiro says. “What kind is it?”

“Red velvet, obviously.”

“Nice.” Shiro pumps a fist. “I picked a good husband.”

Curtis laughs, choosing a knife from the block.

“You like red velvet?” Keith asks dubiously, sidling up to the breakfast bar. He eyes the cake, frosted in white cream.

Curtis slices into it.

The bloodclot color inside has the floor lurching beneath him again because in this whole apartment it’s

the only

red.

(And it’s not even—)

Shiro is an unfocused, nodding moon above the dirty blood color, his answer hazy in Keith’s pounding ears: “...hooked on… new bakery downtown... upcakes…”

Keith blinks, vision swimming. “K-Kupcake?” he echoes.

_Spelled with a K, like—_

“Keith, do _you_ like red velvet?”

The familiar-unfamiliar voice crumbles Keith’s muddled vision like charcoal, sucking the smell and taste from the air, the sickly sweet scent of the confection dissolving to soot on his tongue.

“I don’t really… get it,” Keith says, frowning blearily at the cake. “Isn’t it just chocolate dyed red?”

(It’s red and it’s not even—)

Shiro groans just as Curtis whirls around with a smile and shouts, _“Ha!”_ right in Shiro’s face. It shocks Keith back into his body, his socked feet on the floor of Shiro’s apartment.

“Hush,” Shiro grumbles.

“I knew Keith would agree with me! He goes on and on about those cupcakes,” Curtis says to Keith with a conspiratorial eye roll as he continues cutting the cake, revealing more and more of that 

red-not-red,

surface-red but underneath too dark.

_—too dark to go on a wall—_

“I told him they just taste like chocolate with cream cheese frosting.”

“They do _not_ ,” Shiro retorts, indignantly, in a way that makes Keith feel like he’s in the audience watching a play they’ve rehearsed. It washes over him, swirling, untying him so he begins to drift...

(He)

“You would not be able to tell the difference if you were blindfolded. Just sayin’.”

(is)

“So this is why you came back early? To make fun of my taste in cakes?”

(falling...)

“Yes, only for that. Not because I love you and missed you or anything. Keith? How big a slice you want?”

Keith blinks himself alert again. Curtis is poised with the knife over the cake, looking at him expectantly. His brain feels like it’s swimming through sludge. “Huh? Oh, um. I don’t…”

“I’ll give you a really small one, and you can have more if you like it.” Curtis carves off a small slice and flops it onto a plate. 

Keith takes it wordlessly, trying not to stare at the color. His gaze lands on the lemons instead. 

_Decorative_.

(Insubstantial.)

_Curtis has an eye for these things._

“Are you planning to spend the night, by the way?”

When Keith wrenches his gaze away from the decorations, he finds Shiro and Curtis both watching him. Curtis just spoke, is leaning against the counter and picking at his own cake. The smile has not left his face since he came in, Keith thinks. It sits there like a glass bowl on a countertop. Immobile.

 _Decorative_.

“I saw Takashi got bananas last week so they’d be ripe enough by now. He only ever makes those chocolate chip banana pancakes when you’re here, you know. It’s been ages, I’m dying for them. I love banana pancakes.”

Keith stares down at the slice on his plate. “I don’t even like bananas,” he mumbles.

The short silence that follows makes him look back up. Shiro is staring at him, jaw dropped, while Curtis looks back and forth between them, clearly amused.

“Keith!” Shiro exclaims. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me? I made you so many pancakes over the years!”

Face flushing, Keith looks away. “Well, I liked the chocolate chips.”

“I could have just made you chocolate chip pancakes, then, Keith!”

Curtis laughs. “Oh my god, Takashi, you’ve done it again.”

Shiro plants a fist on his hip petulantly. “Done _what_ again, pray tell?”

(He's falling...)

“That thing where you do something nice for someone, they politely accept the gesture, and you assume that means it’s their favorite thing!"

(He's falling...)

"This is just like when we first got together. You remember—”

(up...)

Keith’s plate lands on the counter with a clatter. The sound rings in his ears, forcing him back down. Out of the audience.

“Um, I’m staying with Lance tonight, anyway,” Keith says abruptly. “To answer your question. So, um… no need to worry about the pancakes.”

They watch him wordlessly.

(He’s not following the script. He didn’t know there was a script.)

He presses his lips tight, glances at the clock on the stove. It’s barely eight. “Actually, I should get going…”

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks, frowning.

Still joking, Curtis starts: “If this is about the pancakes—”

“It’s not,” Keith says, too bluntly.

Shiro glances at the near-empty bottle in Keith’s hand. “Are you all right to drive?” 

“Yeah. I’m fine, Shiro.” He kicks the bottle back just to prove his point. A stupid gesture; it only makes Shiro frown at him more deeply.

“Well, I’m sure you know your own limits…” Shiro’s tone indicates the exact opposite sentiment.

“Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s an old man now,” Keith shoots back, in a tone that does the exact same thing.

It only makes him even more desperate to leave. 

He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair and tugs it on, allowing Shiro to follow him to the door. Once there, he hesitates. He knows he’s being rude but is unable to correct course. He turns to Shiro with a sigh. “Um, thanks for dinner,” he says quietly. “I’m glad I got to see you for your birthday.”

Shiro gives him a lopsided smile, concern still in his eyes. “Me, too, Keith.”

Keith’s heart thuds in his chest. He clears his throat and calls down the hallway, “Good to see you, too, Curtis. Sorry I can’t stay for the pancakes.”

“I’ll live,” Curtis says with a laugh that grates the bones inside Keith’s ears.

 _Yeah, I bet you will_ , he thinks bitterly, the ropes that moor him fraying, unraveling. _You already have fucking everything_.

“You really can stay here if you want, you know,” Shiro says, clearly giving it one more try. His voice is low and sincere, just for the two of them. “I’m sure Lance would understand.”

Keith looks at Shiro from beneath his bangs. He pictures the deflating air mattress on the floor of Lance’s bedroom. Sharing a cramped bed, waking up in the middle of the night when Lance squeezed him too hard and muttered something unintelligible in his ear, clearly dreaming.

He imagines a memory foam mattress topper. Red accent pillows. The smell of Shiro warm and surrounding him in his room.

He remembers _his_ room is gone. Remembers that it’s an easel, a desk, an unfamiliar twin bed. 

Nothing of his remains.

Nothing red.

Nothing real.

He swallows and shakes his head. “He’s expecting me,” Keith lies, and turns for the door.

***

Keith knocks peremptorily on the McClains’ creaky farmhouse door before pushing bullishly inside. “Lance, m’here,” he calls roughly, knowing Lance is expecting him from their hastily exchanged texts. “Sorry it’s kinda late, I was having dinner with Sh—”

He stalls in the foyer, one shoe half-off, when his bleary eyes land on the dining table. Only Lance’s mother, father, and brother Marco are there. They look just as shocked to see him as he is to see them. _Only_ them, not Lance.

“Uhh…”

A surprised, polite smile grows on Lance’s mother’s face. “Keith!”

“Lookin’ for Lance?” Marco asks, grinning.

“Um.” Keith swallows. His vision swims. He catches himself on the door frame, clenching his jaw, holding himself down. 

(Tethered.)

When he opens his eyes, the McClains are watching him with concern. Lance’s dad is halfway out of his seat.

Keith tears his gaze away. “Yeah,” he grits out, voice rough. “Yeah, I’m lookin’ for Lance. Where is he?”

***

The address they give him is in town, above a small restaurant. The color of the paint on the door brings up the words _burnt sienna_ in Keith’s brain, like some sort of planted phrase, so he assumes that’s what it must be. It’s chipping away from the wood in long strips when he knocks.

Within moments, he hears thudding behind the door, and then it swings open with a heavy scrape, like the old wood has warped and swelled against the frame over the years. Lance is there behind it, one slippered foot on the bottom step of a steep staircase, smiling.

“Hey, man.”

(Familiar. Grounding. A relief.)

(He can do this.)

“Hey.”

Lance allows Keith the space to enter the stairwell with his duffel bag, kicking winter rain off his heavy-soled boots. He notes multiple pairs of shoes at the base of the stairs—sneakers, flip-flops, slippers—and, setting his jaw, begins to peel his boots off.

“You couldn’t’ve told me you got your own place?” he mutters over his shoulder.

Lance is braced against the wall in the stairwell with arms crossed, watching Keith yank one boot down his calf. He’s in a loose-fitting tank top and thin sweatpants, blue slippers on his feet, looking eminently comfortable. “Yeah, my bad,” he admits with an easy shrug. “It’s been a while, you know. Like, four months or something since I moved. I forgot you didn’t know.”

Keith scoffs as he gets one hand around the heel of his boot and wrenches at it, nearly tipping over with the sudden effort. He catches himself against the wall with a shoulder and huffs in frustration, scowling. “Why do you even need your own place, anyway? What was wrong with the farmhouse?”

“Aside from the fact that I was still sleeping in my literal childhood bedroom, you mean? Nothing, I guess, but I’ve been doing some consulting work that pays well enough. Thought I’d get out on my own.” There’s a grin in Lance’s voice as he leans a forearm against the wall near Keith’s head. “Did you go to the farm?”

“What?”

“When you were looking for me.” Lilting, teasing. “Did you go to the farm?”

“…Fuck off.”

“You _did_!” Lance laughs, head falling back against the wall. “Was everyone there? Did you just walk on in? Oh, that must have been so embarrassing for you.”

Keith’s boot finally pops off his heel. His socked foot lands on the gritty floor; he can feel the wet gravel that he knows he tracked in himself.

“You’re so much shorter without those on.”

He glares up at Lance, who only grins cheekily back. Swallowing a growl, he slams an elbow against Lance’s sternum, shoving him against the railing as he makes to push past him up the stairs.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa, where’re you going?” Lance exclaims, catching Keith’s shoulder with a laugh. “Those are for you, buddy.”

“What?”

When Keith turns, Lance is looking down at the landing, the pressure of his hand urging Keith to twist so he does, as well. Beside his muddy, sagging boots is a pair of fluffy slippers that he had ignored before, clearly pristine and unworn, white and fire engine red.

“Merry Christmas,” Lance says. “Only, like, two months late.”

Keith’s stomach churns. His eyebrows are making deep furrows in his forehead. “What?”

Lance laughs in his face. Right in his fucking face, because he’s that close, in the cramped stairwell. It shoots fire through Keith’s sparking veins, and he’s not sure whether it’s from frustration or the sweet heat of Lance’s breath. Maybe both.

It’s Lance. It’s probably both.

“I saw them in fuckin’ Walmart in, like, December and thought of you,” Lance says, still smiling. “I figured I’d see you at some point, so I got ‘em. Didn’t realize it’d be fuckin’ March, but…”

Keith’s eyes drift to Lance’s mouth as he’s forming these words. These words like _fuckin’_ and _thought of you_ and _fuckin’_. They’re so close, right now. They’ve done it before. It would be so easy to bridge the distance, to slide his tongue into Lance’s mouth and let his frayed ropes catch and tangle on the reminder of who he is, 

who he was, 

who he thinks he used to be, 

before he floats away for good.

(And Lance would give it to him.)

Keith wets his lips, suddenly parched, staring until he realizes Lance has paused, half-smiling.

“Wanna try ’em on?”

His gaze sweeps over Lance’s face. Eyes dark blue, shadowed from the overhead light by his delicate brows. Skin glowing, probably from that stupid moisturizing routine. Mouth smirking knowingly, lips soft and plush and—

“…Or did you wanna try something else?” Lance suggests, full of amused understanding.

Keith lunges forward. He bites into Lance’s lip, shutting Lance the hell up, slamming the back of Lance’s head against the wall hard enough to _thud_ , a split second before Keith’s hand lands beside it, caging him in. Then he licks over the bite, a small consolation that has Lance humming in pleasure. The sound tingles satisfaction up Keith’s spine, grounding him like a lightning rod, channeling the storm to dissipate in the dirt.

_You kiss too hard._

He remembers the words, and so he tries to make his lips soft, make _himself_ soft. Not for Lance’s sake but for his own, because right now he _has to_. _Has_ to catch on something or he’ll fly away like dandelion fluff. And it doesn’t much matter what he catches on but god it feels good to have Lance against him, the scrape of his teeth, the hint of pain-turned-pleasure rooting him in the moment, tying him to the Earth.

Lance’s hand is on the side of his neck, warm and dry as fingertips tangle in his hair. Another lands on his hip, careful pressure, and Keith lets Lance push him gently back a few inches before Keith twists his hand through both straps of Lance’s tank top and hauls Lance after him, keeping their mouths connected.

And Lance doesn’t stop kissing him, doesn’t stop stroking Keith’s tongue with his, doesn’t stop sliding his fingers into the hair at the base of Keith’s neck. They tighten there, not pulling but _tensing_ , just _testing_ , and Keith groans loudly against Lance’s mouth because _yes_ , because _fuck._

Because he _wants_ that.

Because the last person to do _that_ was—

_up there._

The hand on his hip is still pushing, still pressing, and distantly Keith realizes he’s not being pushed away but being pushed _towards_ , pushed _up_ the stairs, to the rest of the apartment. The next stair creaks beneath his foot as he climbs. Lance transfers his hand to the wall to steady them as they begin to move but still _pushes_ , still _presses_ eagerly with his body and _tightens_ those fingers in Keith’s hair, following Keith’s mouth with his, even as he has to tilt his head to keep their lips together.

At the top of the staircase, Keith pauses. Lance is perched on the second-to-last step, one hand braced against the wall, the other arm snaked around Keith’s lower back, chin still angled sharply to suck Keith’s lower lip between his teeth and bite softly.

But Keith wants it harder. Fire is beginning to blaze in his gut and he wants it _harder,_ wants it bruising, wants it _punishing_ , wants it how it was

_up there._

“Bedroom,” he commands. One breath. In between kisses. Leaving no room for argument.

Lance just hums affirmatively. Steps up, into Keith’s space. And Keith’s forearms slide around Lance’s shoulders and Lance dips down, lips pulling into a smile against Keith’s, a hand tapping at the back of Keith’s thigh, and Keith jumps instinctively a split second before skeptical alarm flashes through him and he’s swept _uuuup—!_

His stomach swoops as Lance hoists him easily, the sensation swirling his vision. He sucks in a breath and focuses on how an arm has twined around his back, one hot palm is splayed on his ass, subtly spreading it. Heat crackles through his veins at the recognition that he is clinging to Lance with his thighs, his cock hardening obviously against Lance’s stomach, and he feels—

 _Annoyed_.

(He could almost laugh aloud.)

(He’s annoyed. Annoyed! A thick thorn of delicious, familiar irritation sticking to his dandelion-fluff body at how Lance is holding him so easily, at how Lance is turning him on so easily.)

He seizes that feeling with both hands.

“Since _when_?” he demands.

Lance smiles against his throat. “Farm,” is all he says.

Right. While Keith was sitting in meetings and planning humanitarian missions, Lance was eating well and working the land. Beneath Keith’s grip is years of tilled soil and chopped firewood and cultivated life coaxed from the earth. He digs his fingers into Lance’s shoulder like he could wrench away chunks of sod instead of flesh and then plant himself inside the pocket left behind, anchored fast.

Lance flexes under his palm, letting out a small, pained grunt, and Keith instantly releases his grasp. Because he can’t let himself burrow, or take root. This isn’t fertile ground; this is just _ground_. And that’s all he needs right now.

Abruptly, Keith aches for freefall, for Lance to let him go so he can feel a moment of weightlessness before Lance tosses him on the bed, holds him down, forces his face into the mattress and shoves his cock inside, takes what he wants. 

(Just like _he_ did.)

Boiling under his skin, Keith claims Lance’s mouth again, _hard_ , and Lance hurries them down the hallway, into the dark of the apartment. Posters and photographs swirl by them—he thinks he catches a glimpse of a bathroom when Lance shoves him against a doorjamb and sucks at his collarbone—and then Lance kicks open a door and stumbles inside and Keith is falling but has only a second to realize it before a mattress bounces beneath him and Lance’s hands are at the hem of his shirt, ripping it over his head.

“God, _fuck_ ,” Lance gasps, tearing his own shirt off only a moment before Keith’s hands are on his skin. The starlight streaming through the window limns his chest, catching on the stark lines of him. 

Keith _burns_ at the sight. He sits up to rake fingernails over abs. “Farm,” he repeats dumbly.

Lance chuckles and gives a half-nod before he’s bending over Keith again, licking into his mouth, hiking one of Keith’s thighs over his hip to rut against him, and Keith is meeting him thrust for thrust, reveling dizzily in the obvious tent in Lance’s cotton pants. He drags a hand down Lance’s chest to grasp him through the fabric.

One of those fizzle-sparks goes off in his brain. Lance is _thick_. Thick and hot and deliciously hard in Keith’s palm when he squeezes, making Lance moan into his shoulder. 

Keith drags the heel of his hand over the length, making a decision. “You’re gonna fuck me with this,” he growls in Lance’s ear before turning his fingers to his own fly.

“Oh, am I?” Lance half-laughs, but he rolls onto his hands and knees to give Keith space to peel off his jeans, and briefs with them.

Keith has to kick them hard to get them off his ankles before he’s crawling up to Lance’s bedside table, opening drawers willy-nilly, rooting through sleep masks and earbuds and bottles of pills.

“Whoa, whoa.” The mattress dips and then Lance is there beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “Whatcha lookin’ for, there, tiger?”

Keith sighs, frustration mounting. “Lube, the fuck do you think?”

Lance bats his hands away and rummages in the bottom drawer. “You knocked everything else over it,” he mutters. “Ah, here it is— Ohp, and ya took it.”

Keith ignores him, popping the top instantly. He spurts some onto his fingers, and rolls onto his hands and knees to reach behind himself and sink a finger inside with a groan. 

“Holy shit, dude.”

Keith glares at him. _“What?”_

Lance lifts his hands defensively. “Nothing, you’re just really hot right now,” he laughs, a little incredulous. Keith doesn’t miss the way his eyes greedily roam over his form, how he palms his hard cock through his pants.

“Take those off,” he grits out, glancing pointedly at Lance’s one remaining piece of clothing.

Lance’s hungry expression turns to a smirk. He cups himself performatively, outlining the thickness of his length through the cotton. “Yeah? You want this?”

And ugh. Typical Lance. If he were any less hung, Keith would call the whole thing off, just to teach him a lesson. But as it is, seeing the fabric stretch obscenely across the head of Lance’s cock makes Keith fucking _salivate_.

“Take them the fuck _off_ ,” Keith insists, voice gravelly as he twists a second finger in. He’s not in the mood to work himself up kindly.

“Not denying it, huh?” Lance teases, but he gets his knees under him and hooks his thumbs into the elastic.

He drags the pants down slowly, _so_ slowly. So slowly that Keith almost snarks something at him, knowing it’s a purposeful tease.

But the words snag in his throat. His gaze fixes ravenously on the space framed by Lance’s index fingers, on the gradual reveal of the lines of his shaft. On how it lasts for what feels like ages. On how when the elastic finally reaches the head, it catches on the ridge for just a heartbeat before the entire thing bobs out, thick and heavy and obviously leaking. And Keith’s not sure when his mouth dropped open, probably around the point when he imagined latching his lips around the middle of Lance’s cock and just drooling over it, but he knows he must look at least half as thirsty as he feels when Lance huffs a laugh, wraps a hand around himself and pumps once, clearly preening.

“Yeah?” he exhales, dripping conceit. Fingers reach for Keith’s face and toy softly with the dark hair brushing his cheekbone. “You wanna suck it?”

And Keith forces himself to ignore the voice inside him screaming, _Don’t give an inch! Don’t let him know you want him, he’ll spit on it, he’ll laugh! _He forces himself because… 

…Because fuck, he _does_ wanna suck it.

So he decides instead to give in to the rollercoaster he felt in his stomach at Lance’s words. Give in to the way his tongue is already cupping itself eagerly, the way his mouth is suddenly unbearably empty and aching to be fucked, nearly as greedy as the hole he’s curling his fingers into.

He flicks his eyes upward and meets Lance’s gaze, heavy and glittering in the moonlight. Pleased yet disbelieving. Almost awestruck. His expression settles glowingly in the vainest part of Keith’s brain, makes it purr.

The fingertips playing with his hair skate down his cheek to run over his bottom lip, and Keith widens his mouth, lolls out his tongue in clear invitation.

Lance’s eyebrows draw together, and his own jaw drops open in something like wonder, mirroring Keith as he rocks forward and feeds Keith his cock.

 _God_ , it feels good in his mouth. Rock hard and dripping precome, smearing over his lips and tongue. Keith can’t help but add a third finger at the same time as that fat cock pushes its way inside his mouth. His eyelids flutter shut on a moan that Lance echoes instantly, one hand burying itself in Keith’s hair while the other thuds against the wall, bracing. And Keith gives it his all right away, because Lance can be smug as hell about his frankly beautiful cock (and what the _hell_ , who gave him the right?), but Keith has sucked a lotta dick in his life and knows he’s a fucking champ.

He takes as much as he can on the first thrust, then pulls off and takes even more on the second, bobbing his head and swirling his tongue over the tip. Takes Lance in until the crown knocks against the back of his throat and doesn’t stop.

“Oh god,” Lance chokes out as Keith swallows around the head of his dick. “Oh _fuck_.”

Keith hums back, scissoring his fingers while Lance’s tighten in his hair, pulling him slowly off his cock. He can taste the thickened spit from the back of his throat, can feel how his mouth is growing sloppier, relishing the hot slide as Lance holds his head in place and thrusts back in.

God, if Lance went faster, if Lance fucked his throat with abandon until Keith was strangled and gulping air on every pull out, it really _would_ be just like that night

_up there._

Keith clenches his eyes and whimpers, stretching his rim eagerly.

(Because fuck, _his_ dick was just as big. Bigger, in Keith’s memory. Not the biggest he’s ever had, he knows that logically, because he’s had Galra cock and that was otherworldly, literally. But still it looms largest in his mind. There’s just something about thick human dick that gets Keith’s blood singing. The flare of the head, the salty taste of the precome, the sweat and the girth and the vein running down the bottom. When it all comes together perfectly, it gets him gagging for it, the way he is now. The way he was then.)

(Jesus, the way he was _then_ …)

He shivers as Lance yanks him off his cock by his hair. He’s moaning before his mouth even pops free.

“Fuck, gotta…” Lance pants above him, gripping the base of his dick. “Gotta save it for that hole you’re stretching out so nice, kitten. I’m supposed fuck you with this, apparently.”

“ _Hngh_.” Keith meant it to be little more than a hum of affirmation but it escapes his chest as a whine. He drops his forehead to his arm, feels the mattress shift as Lance moves, sliding a warm hand down Keith’s spine to where he’s fingering himself open.

“Mm, fuck. Look at this ass.”

_Smack!_

Keith jumps at the sound, the sting coming just a split-second later. He moans as Lance rubs his hand over where he just spanked him, his vision swimming just a little into stars.

“Jesus, dude, talk about bouncing a quarter...”

That brings him right back down. He almost even rolls his eyes, but then Lance’s hand lifts and Keith is bracing himself eagerly, ready for it this time: the resounding _smack!_ as Lance spanks him again.

Lance’s second palm lands on the other cheek, squeezing and spreading his ass almost playfully. He thumbs gently at Keith’s stuffed hole. “So this is where you want me, huh?”

Keith lifts his head, annoyance rising more easily now that Lance’s dick isn’t in sight. “Shut— _hahh_ —”

Wet heat joins Keith’s fingers, licking around them and between them, and Keith can’t help his noise of surprise. Lance’s nails dig into the meat of his ass, holding him there so he can lave his tongue over Keith’s stretched rim.

“God, what the fuck,” Keith gasps, head spinning.

(Because _seriously_ , what the fuck? Who _is_ Lance in bed? With his rough teasing and his stupid comments and his absurdly nice dick. Annoying him and turning him on and then annoying him again. Arousing in every way, driving Keith insane with whiplash.)

Lance hums proudly against his fingers. “Always wanted to see how you’d like this,” he murmurs, his hand coming down again hard, even while his tongue is working against him, getting him sloppy and dripping.

“The r-rimming?” Keith asks, voice shot to hell. “Or the—ah, _fuck_ —spanking?”

The grip on his left cheek gets even tighter, firmer, as a fourth finger wriggles its way inside Keith, instantly curling, and Keith moans when it finds that sensitive bundle of nerves inside him. There’s a sharp nip at the flesh to the side of his hole.

“Me fucking you,” Lance says simply, rubbing over Keith’s prostate like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And Keith is whimpering almost immediately, blood rushing in his ears, because _god_ , it hasn’t been this good in a _long_ time. And as ridiculous as it is that it’s with _Lance_ of all people (what the fuck? Lance McClain is good in bed? Who fucking knew), he can’t stop himself from reveling in it. He’s vaguely aware of Lance taking over stretching him, pulling Keith’s hand aside when he’s too overwhelmed to keep going and replacing it with his own fingers and tongue, and Keith grasps the comforter as hard as he can, eyes squeezed shut, allowing the sounds to come faster now, louder now, as his thighs start to tremble. 

A palm comes down hard on his ass again, and he moans, open-mouthed, vision swimming, mind reeling as his tethers slip, rope lashing through the air, spinning up and

_up and_

_UP AND—_

_And he’s back on the castleship, muffling his screams in a pillow._

The mattress dips at the back. Foil tears. A voice purrs, “God, yeah, that’s it. You ready for me?” and he nods frantically, 

_listening to the deep hum of the ship buzzing in his veins, bracing himself to get everything he’s ever wanted._

Lube dribbles over his hole, and then a blunt cockhead nudges at his softened rim, and his breath catches in his throat as it presses inside, frozen for a moment until a great, keening sigh is punched out of him, hot into the crook of his elbow. A hand drags from his lower back up his spine, lands between his shoulder blades and exerts delicious pressure there, holding him down as

_that beautiful cock slides in, thick and deep, so fucking deep._

Keith sobs, “Oh my _god_ —”

“I know, god, I know…” Fingers dig into his hip, keeping him in place as the cock pulls slowly out. “Fuck, Keith, you look so good on my dick.”

“Shhhit, _ohh_ …” Keith lets out a wordless moan on the thrust back in, swallowing the name that wants to spill out. He grits his teeth, trapping it inside, as the bed frame begins to shake.

A hand spreads his ass. He knows eyes are eating up the slick drag of that cock. Tangling his fingers in a pillowcase, he can practically see it all himself. Wet with lube, swallowing that dick over and over. 

_Cold metal against one cheek, digging in._

“ _Fffuck,_ I hope you’re close. I don’t think I can last, the way you’re taking me in, _ahh_ …”

_…Look at how you’re taking me. You’ve wanted this for so long, haven’t you?..._

“Yeah,” Keith gasps, jaw set against the memories. Trying to force himself out of the past and back to the present.

(Knowing he doesn’t want to try hard enough.)

A thumb presses against his rim, slick and stretching around the cock. “God, you look good like this. _Fuck_ , Keith, I didn’t even know…”

_…Didn’t even know how desperate you were, but look at you…_

“Harder,” Keith begs, frantic for the memories to be overwhelmed, overtaken by the squeal of the bed, the panting breaths, the blood rushing in his ears, and the crackling electricity building in his gut.

“Fuck. _Yeah_. Of course you would…”

_…Of course you’d want it as hard as I can give it. Slutty for it, aren’t you?..._

Keith clenches his eyes shut as fingers twist in his hair, pressing his cheek into the bedspread as hips start to pound into him. “Yeah,” he moans, head spinning as drool begins to seep from his open mouth. “Yeah, I am.”

_Smack!_

His body jolts forward with the strength of the spank, but fingers grip him, yank his ass back onto that cock. Whimpers are being punched out of him every second, and his own dick is waving rock-hard beneath him, leaking onto the comforter when he finally gets a hand around it and starts to tug.

“ _Hngh, fuck_. Gonna come.”

“Me, too,” Keith moans, jerking himself hard and fast, delicious heat building building building in his core, at the base of his spine. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, _shhhit, right there_ —”

“Yeah, yeah, oh, fuck— ohfuckoh _fuck, hahh_ —”

The movements begin to stutter, slamming in harder, rougher, grinding into him, and Keith splinters apart, thrashing beneath the grip on his thigh, in his hair, nearly screaming into the comforter as he spills over his twisting knuckles—

“Fuck, _Shiro!_ ”

  
  


Everything goes still in Keith’s brain.

  
  


And then in the bedroom.

There is no deep, bone-thrumming vibration from the castleship. No cold metal against flesh.

This is Earth. It’s Earth, and right now Earth is only labored breathing.

A heavy swallow.

Fingers untangling from his hair and leaving his skin.

“Uhh…”

He buries his face in the comforter. 

“So…”

He brings his hips forward and curves them aside, wincing a little on the pull-out.

The mattress shifts behind him as a weight settles.

“I, uh…” 

Keith covers his eyes with a sweaty hand.

“I’m trying to think of a way to pretend I didn’t hear that, but you kinda screamed it…”

“Shut up.” Keith’s voice is rough, low. Muffled by his hand and the scratch in his throat. “Don’t, Lance. Please.”

Silence but for the heavy breaths in the room. The sound of cars on the street below. The grind of a heater kicking in.

“’Kay,” Lance finally says. “Gonna get cleaned up. There’s a couch in the living room, if you want that. Need to change the sheets and stuff, anyway…”

Keith curls out of the wet spot as the bed dips again, signaling Lance’s exit to the bathroom. Once he hears footsteps in the hall, he rolls up, searches in the dark for his discarded clothing, and pulls on his shirt and briefs.

He pads into the hallway. He can see the light bleeding under the door to the bathroom. A picture frame beside it is askew. It’s the one of all of them on Altea. The same one above the desk in—

Keith very deliberately turns the other way, through a door and into a small kitchen. A narrow table is pressed against the wall, a vase holding a bouquet of juniberry flowers set upon it and two wooden chairs tucked under. He cleans himself up as well as he can in the big sink there, soapy water dripping down his thighs.

Once he hears Lance leave the bathroom and begin stripping the bed, he slips inside the bathroom himself. The digital clock there says it’s close to 1:00 in the morning.

Far too late to find somewhere else to sleep.

Keith finds his way to the living room, at the front of the apartment. The couch is understuffed and nearly swallows him whole when he curls up onto it, ignoring the sound of a washing machine being started. He keeps his eyes closed when footsteps thud into the room.

“I know you’re not asleep. You’re worse at pretending than you think you are.”

Keith allows his eyes to crack open. Lance is standing above him, holding out a blanket and a pillow. Keith takes them wordlessly.

“I’m gonna guess you’ll be gone when I wake up,” Lance says.

Keith doesn’t reply, settling the blanket over him.

“You’re the one making this awkward, just so you know.”

Keith remains quiet.

Lance sighs. “Fine. I’ll see you next time you’re back in the atmosphere. Sorry for fucking you, I guess.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” is all Keith can move himself to mumble.

Lance stares at him for a moment. “Very cool of you to say, Keith. Thanks ever so.”

Keith’s stomach goes stony inside his flesh as Lance leaves him on the couch.

***

Keith’s eyelids crack open when sunlight streams through the window. There’s a weight on his chest. Luna is curled up nose to tail, purring. Her claws dig in when he dislodges her, pricking his skin.

He pads quietly to the front door landing. Sits on the bottom stair to tug his boots back on as sunlight streams orange and purple through the stained glass transom.

He ignores the sounds of Lance stirring. 

He ignores the sight of the red slippers, still unworn.

He ignores how it feels like he’s cutting himself loose to float, weightless and unmoored, into the stars, as he pulls the door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday to keith, i got him some good dick and too many feelings.
> 
> next chapter will be posted a week from today, on october 30!


	4. Talks Like June

After that shoddy performance, Keith plans not to “head back to the Milky Way” for a long, _long_ time. With nothing tying him down, he has no reason to. He tells himself this is good thing.

Instead, he throws himself into Blade work. He ignores all texts, leaves all pictures from Lance unseen, works until he’s falling asleep on his feet. Even Kolivan grunts in concern when he finds Keith curled up behind some supply crates attempting to snatch a precious few minutes of sleep, which is as close as Keith’s boss comes to suggesting someone ought to pump the brakes.

But Keith doesn’t pump the brakes. Because he knows that, other than getting shit done, his exhaustion is performing another essential function: keeping him from lying awake at night.

Keeping him from replaying his half-strangled cry of Shiro’s name.

Keeping him from re-hearing that dead silence and then Lance’s uncertain hemming and hawing as he slid his softening dick out of Keith’s ass.

Keeping his stomach from twisting in horrified knots at that mortifying exposure of his deepest, most secret hunger.

So. The brakes stay unpumped.

Unfortunately, however, Keith's plans of avoiding Earth’s solar system are derailed much more quickly than he expected, this time in the form of an unanticipated video call from Pidge.

_“Hey, doofus, it’s my twenty-first birthday next week. You’re invited.”_

Keith blinks at the hologram Pidge. “…Did I answer this?”

_“Nope, I hacked your phone. My twenty-first birthday’s next week.”_

Only one of those two statements is surprising. “You’re turning twenty-one?”

 _“Yep,”_ she replies, brooking no argument. _“Gonna get crunk, or whatever the hell people are saying these days. All Team Voltron’s agreed to come, except you.”_

Hearing that honestly does not do much for Keith, in terms of making him want to go.

He grimaces. “You know, we’re really busy here…”

 _“Yeah, I’m sure you are. I don’t care. It’s my birthday, and I haven’t seen you in forever. Lance_ _has seen you more recently than I have, and you don’t even like_ _Lance.”_

Keith frowns. “I like Lance,” he mutters, indignant.

Holographic Pidge holds up something small, grinning. She presses a button and the thing instantly spits back, in Keith’s voice: _“I like Lance. I like Lance.”_

Pidge shakes her head. _“Agh, too easy.”_

“Destroy that,” Keith orders her, unamused.

_“Nah, think I’ll save it. Maybe Matt could sample it for some techno bullshit. He’s trying to DJ on the weekends now, did you know?”_

“No, but I’m not surprised.”

 _“Aaanyway,”_ Pidge says, tucking the recording device in her pocket. _“I suppose I could be persuaded to destroy the evidence. Iiiiffff…”_

Keith scowls. “If I go to your birthday party?”

_“You know, you’re not as dumb as you look, Kogane.”_

“Don’t you think the blackmail is a little unnecessary?”

 _“Knowing you and your aversion to socializing? Absolutely not.”_ She grins at him; he stares flatly back. _“I’ll text you the deets. See you next week, dummy!”_

She’s gone before Keith can protest further. He exhales heavily and returns to packing crates. 

***

So Keith finds himself back on Earth, barely a month after the debacle that was Shiro’s birthday and its aftermath. In retrospect, Keith can agree with Pidge’s assessment. He’s not sure he would be standing outside of their apartment building if not for the threat of blackmail.

Pidge and Matt don’t live in Garrison housing, but their shared apartment is close to campus. It’s a second-floor unit in a multi-family home high on a hill overlooking the city, and the shared stairwell smells vaguely of cigarettes as Keith trudges up to their door, dread mounting as he begins to hear raucous chatting and laughter over steady bass.

He is acutely aware he’s walking into his nightmare scenario.

It’s not just that it’s a party, although those are iffy under the best of circumstances. It’s who is at the party. Because if all of the Paladins agreed to come, that means both Shiro _and_ Lance are behind that door. Shiro, who Keith has been in love with since he was fourteen, and Lance, whose dick game is apparently so strong that he fucked Shiro’s name right out of Keith’s chest like banging on the end of a ketchup bottle.

Lance, who thinks everything is a fucking joke. Who Keith’s not sure could keep a secret to save his life. Who could easily wreck Keith’s whole everything tonight, if he hasn’t already.

(God, what if when Keith walks in, everyone just stops talking? Even the music stops—record scratch—as everyone turns to stare at him. Lance cups a hand over his mouth to hide a laugh. Shiro steps forward and says quietly, “Keith, can I talk to you in private?”)

(Honestly, what if Keith just turns around and leaves? What if he just never sees any of these people ever again? Would that really be so bad?)

He crests the landing and catches sight of the doormat that clearly belongs to Pidge and Matt’s apartment. It says, _There’s no place like 127.0.0.1_.

Keith sighs, fighting down a smirk. The doormat makes the decision for him; he has to go inside just to make fun of them.

He raps on the hard wood, but no one answers. He can hear Hunk laughing inside, followed shortly by Shiro exclaiming, _“Lance!”_ and then the cadence of Coran’s accent launching into some story that he can’t make out through the door. Bracing himself, Keith reaches for the doorknob.

“Pidge, I’m—”

A cry goes up that has him freezing in the doorway. 

“Keeeeith!” Matt Holt, clearly already drunk.

“Number Four has arrived!” Coran, exuberant.

Warm, solid arms crush him in a hug: Hunk. “Oh my gosh, it has been such a long time. You look older. Everyone, doesn’t he look older?”

“I _am_ older…”

Over Hunk’s shoulder, Lance is grinning open-mouthed, both arms raised in excitement. “Ayyy, the life of the party’s here!” He steps forward to pat Keith solidly on the back and winks. “Finally someone I bet could put up a fight on the pong table.”

“Hey!” Matt exclaims, jabbing his finger in Lance’s chest. “Just because we don’t play bitch cup in this house, McClain…”

“Who _doesn’t_ play bitch cup? C’mon, Keith, back me up. Wait ’til you hear about the _killer_ shot I made…”

“Glad you could come after all, Keith.” That’s Shiro, coming to stand beside him with a kind smile. He’s holding out a beer, which Keith takes gratefully.

“Thanks, Shiro,” Keith says quietly, hoping against hope that Lance won’t be drawn to their interaction.

He ought to know better by now.

Lance shoves Matt out of his face to lean an elbow heavily on Keith’s shoulder and examine the bottle. “Hmm, nice beer,” he muses, voice low and teasing in Keith’s ear as he rubs his chin thoughtfully. “But does it have enough CBD in it?” 

Keith jerks his head. Lance is smirking only inches from his face, blue eyes glinting with familiarity, with an inside joke. Keith’s stomach swoops with understanding, with the realization of just how well Lance knows him now, with guardedness at the idea that Lance could easily ask someone other than Keith to laugh at it. At _him_.

…But, at least for now, he doesn’t seem to want to.

So, “Shut up, Lance,” Keith grumbles, elbowing him away as he screws off the top and takes a sip.

Incidentally, the beer does _not_ have enough CBD. Er, hops.

Either, really.

Pidge then emerges from the kitchen with a tray of Jell-O shots, wearing about three different birthday hats and enormous, novelty sunglasses over her regular specs. She gives Keith a bright smile when she lays eyes on him and sways over with the tray to force three shots on him as punishment for being the last to arrive. After that, Keith begins to relax, loose-limbed and buzzing lightly. No one is acting any different around him than normal, unless he counts Lance, who is simply acting like they’re closer friends than when they were last around the other Paladins.

Which Keith supposes is true.

Case in point: He gets up from the couch to replace his beer, and Lance calls after him, “Hey, Keith! Could you get me another, too, buddy?” When Keith returns holding a Corona with a lime wedge shoved down the neck, Lance’s expression turns softly grateful, and Keith has an uncomfortable moment of clarity in which he realizes that he knows Lance’s shitty beer preference, down to the citrus fruit that’s supposed to go with it. He ignores the curious look Shiro gives him over his Uno hand.

The night goes on. Lance challenges Matt to a rematch on the pong table, and Matt boisterously takes him up on it. Lance lassoes Pidge, “the birthday girl!”, as his partner, which leads Matt to ask Hunk, which in turn leads Lance to squawk melodramatically about friendship and betrayal and _et tu, Hunk?_ Coran appears fascinated by the rules of the game, comparing them to some Altean deathmatch, and resolves to commentate the event.

Keith has just settled against the wall to watch, one arm wrapped around his ribs while he sips his tasteless beer, when Shiro sidles up to him.

“Keith, can I talk to you for a minute?”

His blood chills. He swallows deeply, trying to school his expression into one of nonchalance. “Yeah. Sure.” His eyes snag on Lance’s, which widen for one alarming moment as he turns to follow Shiro.

They find small refuge in the kitchen. The others are in the dining room, just through the doorway, but their rowdiness actually provides some cover for their conversation. Keith can hear Lance’s sputtering protests, how his voice goes high over the clamor, the way Keith remembers it from when they were young. It’s strangely comforting in the face of Shiro’s solemnity.

“What is it?” Keith asks warily.

“I just wanted to ask how things are with you.” 

Shiro’s gaze is intent, his words careful. Keith’s heart drops. He knows what that tone means. It means Shiro is leading up to a much more difficult conversation topic.

“They’re good…” Keith says evasively. “…How are they with you?”

Shiro huffs a laugh, as though he’s realized how poor a job he’s doing of easing into whatever he actually wants to talk about. “They’re… good. Too. Listen. I wanted to, uh…”

Keith shifts awkwardly. In the dining room, Lance crows victoriously.

“…apologize?”

Surprise runs through him. His eyes flick up to Shiro’s.

“For how things went on my birthday,” Shiro goes on, his thick brows furrowed. “I got the feeling that you were upset when you left.”

“Oh, no,” Keith lies, wanting to fidget. “No, not at all.”

Shiro looks unconvinced. “Really? You left in such a hurry.”

“That was because I needed to get to Lance’s.” He figures he might as well double down on his original excuse. 

Shiro nods. “Yeah, that’s what Lance said when I asked him. He said you seemed fine when you left, but…” 

A wave of confusion washes over Keith.

Confusion and… gratitude?

Lance, lying for him? Covering his ass? It’s unexpected, especially given where the night ended up. Did he just want to keep what happened between them a secret? Or did he sense that Shiro was the last person in the universe Keith would want to know?

He glances through the doorway, catches a glimpse of Lance lining up a shot, his brow pinched in concentration.

“Well, I wanted to ask…”

Keith looks back as Shiro takes a deep breath, so deep that it swells out his already broad shoulders, and Keith is overcome by the desire to step directly into them, have Shiro envelop him totally.

“…if it was because of Curtis.”

The shock registers even through the haze of beer and Shiro’s proximity. It’s uncomfortably close to the truth. He has to tread carefully if he doesn’t want to give everything away, considering Lance clearly didn’t.

He can keep his own secrets better than _Lance_ can, anyway.

Neutrally, he asks, “Why do you say that?”

“Well, it’s been a while since you’ve been to our place,” Shiro goes on, sincere. So sincere. “I think maybe a lot of things have changed. Like the guest room.”

It sticks like an arrow between the ribs— _the guest room_.

(Not Keith’s room.)

(Not anymore.)

“Curtis suggested we change it into a shared workspace, since my desk light was keeping him up if I worked late. So we had to get rid of the big bed, and I can understand if seeing the twin felt a little, I don’t know. Childish?” Shiro chuckles a little. “I mean, you’re a grown man. I can appreciate not wanting to sleep in a twin bed.”

Images of Lance laid out on his narrow farmhouse mattress dance behind Keith’s eyelids. Keith in Lance’s bed, with Lance in it, too. Cramped. Warm.

_Hot. Sweating. Panting, moaning—_

“I—” He forces himself to choke the thoughts down. It’s… easier this way. Less explanation. “Yeah. Yeah, that was it.”

At Shiro’s nod of resigned understanding, Keith feels his brows knit together. His heart hurts, seeing that look on Shiro’s face. 

“I understand,” Shiro says, smiling sadly. “I always wanted my apartment to be a place that you found welcoming, but…”

“It’s okay,” Keith forces himself to say, his gut twisting. “You have to make some changes. You’re… you’re married.”

And Shiro… Shiro _looks_ at Keith. And Keith can barely breathe.

“Yeah, I am,” Shiro says, and Keith doesn’t think he’s imagining the note of pain. A weight lands on Keith’s shoulder, and Keith realizes faintly that it’s Shiro’s big, heavy hand but he’s currently occupied drowning in the deep earnestness of his gray eyes. “But I still want to be there for you, Keith. You’ll always be important to me.”

Keith is fighting to keep his head above water. The gray is swallowing him up. His lips part, breath coming short. “Shiro…”

“Oh, whoops! Uh. Uh, uhh… sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Mind if I sneak by ya?”

Keith’s eyes clench shut at that… that _voice_. He tears himself from Shiro, and that warm weight leaves his shoulder, and that glittering heat dissipates from his throat.

Lance is wincing at both of them, his neck shrunk into his chest as he points to the fridge. “Just gonna get myself another beer…” he half-whispers, like he’s trying to shuffle past the screen while a movie’s playing.

“Don’t you think you should be switching to water, Lance?” says Shiro, ever responsible. He stopped his alcohol intake after two glasses of wine, hours ago.

“Ah, yup. Water. Yup, that’s a thing. Good call, boss.” Lance shoots him a finger gun before he reaches into the fridge and emerges with a filtered water pitcher. He winks at both of them before sweeping over to the counter. “Juuuust a sec and I’ll be out of your hair. Soon as I can find my way out of Keith’s mullet!”

Keith heaves a full-body sigh as Shiro laughs indulgently. The hand is back, but only for a second— _pat, pat_ —and then Shiro’s saying, “Well, it’s nice to know some things never change. I’ve got an early morning, but don’t be a stranger, all right, Keith?” and Keith is pursing his lips and nodding, and Shiro is smiling and brushing past him, and Keith is left in the kitchen with Lance, who is pouring himself a big glass of water with forced nonchalance. He’s even fucking _whistling_ , and if that’s not the biggest giveaway that something’s amiss, Keith doesn’t know what is.

“Didn’t walk in on anything, did I?” Lance asks, all lightness and air.

“No,” Keith says bluntly, and bulls his way back into the dining room.

Shiro leaving sets off a chain reaction. Hunk’s eyelids begin to droop. Coran starts to yawn, and Pidge rummages in a closet until she hauls out a military-grade sleeping bag for him to set up on the floor of Matt’s room.

His ability to socialize flagging, Keith seeks refuge on the tiny balcony off the kitchen. It’s little more than a platform surrounded by a wrought-iron railing, but it has a gorgeous view of the city, laid out in the valley beneath them. He sits on the concrete floor, his legs dangling through the bars, and rests his temple on the rusty iron as he breathes the cool April breeze.

The sound of the door behind him opening breaks the quiet, followed by:

“Yo.”

Keith doesn’t lift his head. The cold dread that rolls over him is almost tangible.

Lance grunts loudly as he lowers himself to the ground beside Keith. He lets his legs swing out between the bars, hugging the railing as he looks out on the city, too.

“How’s it going?”

Keith shrugs noncommittally, not meeting Lance’s gaze.

“One sec, lemme just put that through the ol’ Keith-to-English translator. Boop, beep-beep…” Lance makes some jerky motions with his arms, tilting his torso to and fro.

Keith takes a deep breath and lets it out.

Finally, Lance lifts both hands with an attempt at a triumphant, eight-bit computer noise. “Translation: ‘Fuck off, Lance.’”

“Pretty good translator.”

Lance laughs. “Thanks.”

They sit in silence.

“Sooo…”

Keith’s eyes drift closed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Lance’s voice is breathy with laughter. “Neither would I, if I were you.”

Keith lets his forehead rest on the back of his hand. “So let it go.”

“Nah, can’t do that. _Way_ too curious. Plus, I’m pretty sure you don’t get to say someone else’s name during a hookup, be a dick about it immediately afterwards, and then have things go back to normal without having some ’splainin’ to do.”

“Ugh…”

“Oh, please, like it’s such a hardship,” Lance scoffs. “Think of it from my perspective. You give your buddy the business, he shouts your _other_ buddy’s name at the moment of climax, and then clams the fuck up and ghosts you for a month?”

Based on his tone, he must be giving Keith some kind of pointed expression but Keith can’t bring himself to face him, embarrassment clawing its way up his throat.

“Like, I get it. I probably woulda walked into the ocean to start my new life among the anemones. But I’m not gonna tell anyone else. I just want to know what’s going on. As weird as it was, this is probably the most interesting thing to happen to me in years.” He chuckles a little, drumming his fingers on the railing. “Plus, like I said. You were kind of a dick afterwards, so.”

Keith lets his face roll to the side, turning from Lance. It’s the absolute last thing he wants to talk about, and arguably the last person he wants to talk about it with.

Well, other than the obvious.

Although as Lance lingers beside him, not pushing with anything other than his presence, Keith realizes that’s not exactly true, either. Maybe it would have been before Shiro’s wedding, but since then he and Lance have spiraled closer to each other. 

Much, much closer. 

Close enough that it’s become a foregone conclusion that when Keith is on Earth, he’s staying with Lance. Close enough that Lance lied to Shiro, covered for him in the face of what Keith would probably list among the lowest, most humiliating moments of his life. Close enough that Lance bought him house slippers for Christmas, took them to his new place, when the only other person who’s ever made a point to create a space for Keith in their own home was—

Well.

…

…When did this happen?

Lance sighs beside him. “Look, man,” he says, and his tone is softer now, the burning curiosity drained away and replaced with gentleness. “I know you’re not the type to confide. Much less the type to confide in _me_ , so I want you to know that you don’t _have_ to tell me, but… I feel like we’ve become a lot closer over the past year? Is that weird to say out loud?”

Keith stays silent. The chokehold that shame has on his windpipe is still slowly loosening, and he knows that Lance will keep talking, try to cover up the potential strangeness.

When did he come to know these things about Lance?

“I mean,” Lance goes on, as expected, “if you don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine, I respect that. I know you’re a lone wolf, but it’s been, um—” He chuckles a little, looking away as he skates a palm over the back of his head, fluffing up the hair. “Maybe this is the beer and the many, _many_ Jell-O shots talking, but it’s been a pleasure getting to know you for real. My therapist says it’s good for me to develop a relationship that’s not based on my own unreasonable expectations, so I promise I’m trying not to force us to suddenly be bestest best friends forever, but… am I wrong?”

Keith chews on his bottom lip. The knot in his throat is slowly untying as he looks out over the city, mulling over Lance’s words. As he watches, a light in a faraway building goes out. Someone committing to sleep. He shakes his head. “No,” he admits quietly. “You’re not wrong.”

To Keith’s surprise, Lance’s reaction is to pump his fist. “Fuck yeah. Brenda will hear about this!”

Keith snorts. “Dumbass.”

Lance grins. “We’re friends,” he sing-songs. “You’re friends with a dumbass…”

“Don’t push it.” But Keith’s attempt to glare weakens upon seeing Lance's relaxed expression, his eyes bright but heavy-lidded in the lamplight. He’s reminded of all the times they sat on the McClains’ porch. Of Lance saving Keith’s preferred beer for months, of Lance’s lips locking softly with his, of Lance simply laughing, _Oh no, I’m fully dead inside_.

He doesn’t _look_ dead inside. He looks… content. Quiet. Not nearly as intimidating or infuriating as he normally does, as he did earlier in the apartment, shouting over the beer pong table, arguing loudly at Matt.

Maybe this is “dead,” for Lance, Keith thinks. Maybe when you normally live life as brashly and vibrantly as Lance does, still moments in the dark feel like death.

If so, why did Lance come out here? Just to be with Keith?

Keith swallows hard. Turns from Lance to frown out through the railing.

“I’m…”

Keith bites his tongue. He glares down at the twinkling lights of the city. Is he really going to say these words? Out loud? To _Lance_?

He glances sideways once more. Lance is resting his cheek on the back of his hand, watching Keith with those dark, gleaming eyes. His marks frame them dully in the light bleeding in from the apartment. His face has none of its usual playfulness, only quiet expectation. Patience.

Keith takes a breath. Turns away and whispers into the void: “I’m in love with Shiro.”

The words are quiet, almost muted. They don’t arrive with the clang of a bell or the weight of a guillotine blade. They’re there and then they’re gone, spoken into the space in front of him and Lance and then blown away on the night air, featherlight.

“Is that all?”

Keith narrows his eyes at Lance, an itch crawling on his scalp. “What do you mean, ‘is that all’?”

Lance’s mouth is pulled in a curve of curiosity. “Like, one-sided? You’re just in love with him? The two of you aren’t having an affair?”

Keith flinches in surprise. “What? No. Like Shiro would ever…”

It’s a strange urge rising in his chest, to defend Shiro’s honor. The honor that Keith knows he would leap at the chance to shatter into dust if Shiro gave him any indication. He decides to clamp his jaw shut rather than continue.

But Lance is nodding. “Yeah, you’re right,” he muses. “It’s Shiro. He’s way too chivalrous for that. I just figured if you’re saying his name in bed, you probably, like, fucked at least _once_ …”

A smirk tugs at Keith’s lips. “I mean…”

Lance’s brows immediately shoot halfway up his forehead. Ducking closer, he hisses, “Holy shit, you _did_? You and Shiro _fucked_?”

Keith fights down his own self-satisfied smile. “Once,” he admits slyly. 

Lance’s mouth falls open. “Oh my god, the fucking tea I’m being served right now…”

“On the castleship.”

“On the _castleship_!?”

“Shh, Lance—!” Keith nearly laughs, whipping his neck to check that Lance’s exclamation hasn’t alerted anyone inside.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just…” Lance shakes his head at the sky, eyes turned upwards and amused. “Wow! _When_?”

Keith thins his lips. This is the not-as-fun part. “…It was after we found him again,” he says. “After the fight with Zarkon.”

After a moment, the skin by Lance’s eyes twitches, tightens, and Keith knows he’s grasped what that means.

“Oh,” Lance says.

“Yeah.”

“So it wasn’t really Shiro.”

“Yeah.”

Lance’s mouth twists up pensively. “So you didn’t _really_ fuck Shiro.”

Keith glares at him. “I basically fucked Shiro,” he grumbles indignantly. Why are they suddenly arguing about this?

“Insofar as fucking Shiro’s evil twin is ‘basically fucking Shiro’.” And the air quotes Lance uses are a little much but more importantly, _why are they suddenly arguing about this?_

“Which it _is_ ,” Keith insists.

Lance hums noncommittally. He grins and lifts a hand defensively when Keith growls in frustration. “Agree to disagree,” he says airily.

Keith huffs, returning his gaze to the city before them. “Typical Lance,” he mutters.

“Classic Keith,” Lance replies easily, not missing a beat.

They fall into silence. Lance’s feet swing below them, heels tapping arrhythmically against the deck, _tha-thud… tha-... tha-thud.._. Keith sips on the seltzer he grabbed out of the back of the fridge, settling into his familiar annoyance at the guy next to him. He told Lance about his feelings for Shiro and all he gets is the usual _Classic Keith_? Come on.

Then it hits.

He _told_ _Lance_.

He told Lance he’s in love with Shiro.

And Lance is still sitting here beside him. Nothing is different. Nothing has changed. Only a minute ago, no one knew about the secret flame Keith has guarded viciously for the past decade, and now someone does know, and that someone is Lance. And all he did was ask a few questions, pick a stupid argument, and then shrug and let it go.

 _Classic Keith_.

“Hey, how old are you?”

Keith blinks in surprise. “What?”

Lance pulls back from the railing, which he was seemingly testing to see if he could fit his whole head through. (He can’t.) “How old are you,” he repeats, leaning back on his palms. “Like, physically. Because I have no fucking clue.”

Keith snorts, thinking. “Uhh, according to the Garrison records, I’m—”

“No, no-no-no,” Lance interrupts him, flapping his wrist. “I know based on what _year_ it is, but there was that whole time jump, remember? How five years passed on Earth while it was only, like, six months for us? Or a year or something?”

Keith blinks again. “Oh, yeah.”

“See, I don’t even know _that_ … And shit gets even weirder for _you_ , what with all that mother-son bonding time you had in the—”

“Quantum Abyss.”

“—yeah, that place.” 

Keith mimics Lance’s posture, straightening his elbows and bracing himself on his palms. Their pinkies brush on the concrete. He frowns up into the purple-black sky, dotted with pinprick stars. He honestly hasn’t given it any thought until just now, but it _did_ seem a little weird to him when Pidge said she was celebrating her twenty-first birthday; he just didn’t know why. Now he realizes it was because of the arbitrariness of the number. “Huh.”

“Right?” Lance says eagerly. He taps his chin pensively. “I think I might be twenty-…four?”

“Then I’m twenty-five.”

“No, because of the—”

“Oh, right.”

“—the Quantum of Piss.”

Keith rolls his eyes over at Lance, who is grinning lopsidedly back at him. Not breaking eye contact, Lance lifts his pinky finger and purposefully rubs it along Keith’s, scratching him slightly with the nail— _scritch scritch—_ and Keith thinks with a hazy heat that Lance is begging to be kissed too hard right now.

The noise of the sliding glass door startles them apart. Pidge’s small frame darkens the doorway, yawning down at them.

“There you doofuses are,” she says. “Hunk’s passed out in my room, and Matt and I are going to bed. You’re the last ones awake, so you get the couch and the loveseat. Or the floor. Or a dining room chair, if you really want, I don’t give a shit.” She yawns again loudly, eyeing them as though for the first time. She smirks evilly. “Guess you really _do_ like Lance, huh?”

“Whaaat?” Lance asks, his voice going high. “Keith said he liiiked me?”

“No,” Keith says.

“I have audio evidence.”

“Keith, you _liiike_ me?”

Keith’s head tips backward on a groan. “I hate both of you, actually. Why can’t you record me saying _that_?”

***

“Keith.”

Keith cracks one heavy eyelid. He’s pretty sure Lance just…

“Keith, ‘re you awake?”

He pulls the blanket from his face to peer over the side of the sofa. Lance is looking at him from the floor, where he’s made a little nest of sheets and quilts and cushions from the back of the couch. His eyes gleam tiredly in the moonlight streaming through the window.

Keith sighs. “What do you want, Lance.”

“Don’t hafta sound so mean abouddit...” The pout is as present in his voice as his lethargy.

“...What do you want, Lance?” he tries again.

Lance hums, still unsatisfied. “...What’d you do if I said I wanted to cuddle?”

Keith groans and starts to roll back over. A sleepy hand hooks his shoulder with a laugh.

“Kidding, kidding,” Lance murmurs. “I realized I didn’t ask how things were going with the Blade.”

“Oh.” Keith settles again. Lance’s hand falls away slowly. “Uh… good.”

“Didjou do the stuff I suggested?”

It kills Keith to admit it, but, “...Yeah, actually.”

“And?”

“It helped.”

“Nice,” Lance breathes. Keith can hear the smile, and then, even more audibly, the yawn. “Now I gotta teach you how to take a selfie.”

“No.”

“Findjer angles.”

“No, Lance.”

The noise Lance makes in response is a combination of a snuffle and a laugh, pressed into his pillow. They both fall silent, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the crackling of the ice machine, the creaking of the floorboards as the apartment settles. Keith wonders how many times he’s fallen asleep like this, with Lance’s soft breathing as his companion. He realizes he can’t remember the last night he spent on Earth without Lance nearby.

_I promise I’m trying not to force us to suddenly be bestest best friends forever, but…_

_Am I wrong?_

Keith thinks again of those red-and-white slippers, expectant and unworn. The only things that belong to him on this entire planet. He wonders if they’re still waiting for him at the foot of Lance’s stairs, or if Lance stashed them away in some cabinet, offered them to some nameless, nebulous _guest_ , when Keith left without a word.

His chest tightens painfully. Into the dark, he whispers, “I’m sorry for being a dick.”

Lance doesn’t respond. For a long moment, Keith assumes he must be processing it, maybe preparing some teasing response ( _“An apology from the great Keith Kogane? Could I get it in writing and frame it?”_ ). But when he cranes his neck to peek down at him, he finds his face already gone slack against the cushion, fast asleep.

Huffing exasperatedly, Keith falls back on the sofa and closes his eyes.

***

_…nce._

_…like Lance._

_I like Lance._

_“I like Lance I like Lance I like Lance—”_

“Nnnnghhhh…”

Groaning, Keith rolls over, shoving his face deeper into the cushions. He tries his hardest to ignore the loud snickering of Pidge, the offensive light streaming in through the big windows of the living room, and the throbbing pain in his temple all at once.

_“I like Lance I like Lance I like Lance—”_

“Yeah, I could totally sample this.” Matt Holt, standing over the couch somewhere near Pidge.

_“I like Lance I like Lance I like Lance—”_

“Send it to me, if you do.” Lance, his voice muffled and croaking from the floor.

_“I like Lance I like Lance I like Lance—”_

“I,” Keith growls into the couch, clutching the throw pillow over his ears, “will set this entire place on fire, if you don’t turn that shit off right now. See if I won’t.”

“All right, Lance-liker,” Pidge snickers, clicking the recorder off. “But before arson, waffles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we move onto act 2... 
> 
> you may notice the increased chapter count! this is because i had to restructure a little when i realized the last three chapters of the fic were going to be almost double the length of the first four combined. (oof.) it'll also ensure that i can keep up the friday posting schedule even through nanowrimo! this fic is probably ~5-10k away from being fully written (est. 80-90k?), just fyi, so no worries about it going unfinished despite the increased chapter count. :)
> 
> thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs) for the beta read!
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter.


	5. Always Sticking up for You

After Pidge’s birthday, life gets better.

Like, shockingly better.

Keith falls into his old routine, of course. Working too much, pitching new projects, applying for contracts. But he no longer has to fight down cold, clawing dread at the idea of returning to Earth. He no longer has to throw himself into his professional life to avoid what passes for his personal one.

More specifically, he’s no longer running from the memory of sleeping with Lance. Now he can think of it with almost… well, not fondness, exactly. Amusement, perhaps.

Like, he slept with Lance. _Lance McClain_ , Lance _._ The former Blue-to-Red Paladin of Voltron, Lance. He’s seen Lance’s dick.

(Weird.)

In some ways—and he would never admit it, Pidge, so don’t even try—he’s relieved that Pidge forced him to go to her party. He’s not so sure he would have headed back to the Milky Way so soon, left to his own devices.

Even though Keith is no longer laboring excessively, work with the Blade really does pick up, and it keeps him away longer than usual, the way he prayed it would after Shiro’s birthday. But, almost to compensate, pictures from Lance pick up, as well. He even starts receiving some that are clearly not meant for the farm’s public-facing account. 

An image of a tomato that’s so wrinkly it looks like an angry face, captioned: _its u!_

A video of Lance reaching into the beer fridge in a grocery store, picking up one emblazoned with an anthropomorphic hop, and calling out to an employee from behind the camera, “Um, excuse me, sir? How many grams of CBD does this—?” 

A picture of a baggie of weed with the caption, _ready to kick back with a Bud! get it?_

In response to that one, Keith finally takes a picture of himself scowling into the camera. _I get it._

Almost instantly, he gets a selfie of Lance with a joint between his smiling lips. His blue eyes are wide and excited, surrounded by curling smoke. _omg u do know how to use ur phone!_

The picture disappears quickly, but something about it leaves Keith aching for Earth. The feeling is unfamiliar. Normally Keith is perfectly content in space, splitting time between the Blade ship and whatever planet they’re working with at the time.

But… Lance looks so warm. So calm. Comfortable in a faded pink tank top, relaxing outside. Probably chilling in the shade on a hot day, lighting up in his backyard or somewhere secluded on the farm. He looks in his element, in the sun. Is it summer now, Keith wonders? Isn’t Lance’s birthday in the summer? He snorts, realizing that Lance must celebrate every year with no clue how many candles to put on the cake. He wonders how Lance feels about red velvet cake. He probably likes it, the dumbass.

Keith forgoes a selfie this time to type his response.

 **Keith**  
Shiro also didn’t know they were hops btw  
He thought they were brussles sprouts

 **Lance**  
lol himbo alert

Keith huffs a laugh. Shiro kind of is a himbo, huh. About some things, anyway.

 **Keith**  
Hypocrite

 **Lance**  
i am not buff enough to be a himbo  
aspiring himbo at best

 **Keith**  
Haha

 **Lance**  
how u doin space cowboy

 **Keith**  
Work

 **Lance**  
don’t really think that’s a response to “how u doin” but ok lol  
when u coming back

 **Keith**  
Not sure this project probably won’t be finished for another few earth months

 **Lance**  
mmk well don’t forget abt me when ur done  
i bought the beer i did that stupid video with bc i felt bad for harassing the worker and i’m never gonna drink it lmao

 **Keith**  
Lol dumbass

 **Lance**  
[attachment: ilikelance.wav]

 **Keith**  
Fuck you

 **Lance**  
already did shorty <3

Right. Lance fucked him. He fucked Lance.

(Weird.)

Keith rolls his eyes and puts his phone down. 

Only to pick it up a moment later when it pings again.

 **Lance**  
they look way more like weed than brussels sprouts

 **Keith**  
THANK YOU

***

Keith pushes his way in through the door with the peeling _burnt sienna_ paint. He plops himself down on the bottom step to tug his boots off and starts up the staircase before he remembers to check.

Sure enough, the red slippers are still there. Pristine. They even have the tags on, boasting a memory foam sole. He slides his socked feet into them and then trudges up the stairs.

Lance’s kitchen is in the back of the apartment, down a narrow hallway, but the smell of garlic and onions and warm, fragrant olive oil reaches Keith even at the top of the stairs. So does the blasting music, something with a poppy beat that Keith finds Lance shaking his ass to when he finally passes under the doorway.

“Hey.”

Lance nearly upends a can of tomatoes onto the floor.

“Holy shit, dude!” he practically shrieks, whirling around. His hair is wild, his eyes wide. “You can’t sneak up on a guy like that! I’m a _veteran_! I could have _ended_ you.”

“Oh, could you?” Keith smirks and leans against the doorjamb, taking Lance in. He’s flushed from the heat of the kitchen, or maybe the dancing; clad in a frilly, baby blue apron emblazoned with sunflowers and dotted with flour and food stains. His blue slippers, matching Keith’s red ones, are tapping agitatedly on the tile floor.

It’s hard to believe this is the guy who spanked Keith until he screamed.

(Weird.)

Lance rolls his eyes and reaches for his phone, turning down the volume on the Bluetooth speaker. “Well, maybe!” he insists, huffing. “If you weren’t also a veteran yourself. With crazy fast reflexes and a perpetual knife strapped somewhere on your person. Anyway, your shitty beer’s in the fridge. I hope you brought your appetite.”

Keith lurches from the doorjamb. “What are you cooking?”

“Zucchini lasagna,” proclaims Lance, sweeping his arm widely like he’s announcing it to the world.

“Never had it. But anything’s better than food goo, I guess.”

“Well, I am making tomato sauce, so. It is kind of food goo, broadly speaking.” Lance cocks his hip and returns to the stove, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. “I’ve been learning how to cook lately,” he says without prompting, clearly in a talkative mood, “and by ‘lately’ I mean for the past, like, three years. Hunk gives me a crash course whenever he’s around. Plus, posting recipes for produce from the farm is, like, huge for engagement. I’m thinking a cookbook would make us bank, too, something we can sell online for people who live far away…”

Keith makes a little noise of acknowledgement, walking to the fridge to pull out a bottle. He finds chatty Lance easier and easier to be around. Not expecting any response, usually, just an ear to talk off.

“…And if we collaborated with Hunk, people would go _nuts_. Imagine it: A Paladin cookbook. _Cooking with the Defenders of the Universe_! People would eat that shit up! Bottle-opener’s in that drawer.”

Keith pulls it open and hunts briefly through the kitchen sundries. “I don’t see it.”

“Sure you do. I remember you ogling it last time.” Lance winks at him.

Keith frowns and then he lays eyes on it. Bun, ketchup, mustard, and all. The metal teeth sticking out of it look incongruous, emerging from the hotdog-shaped opener.

“Why do you even have this?” Keith asks, picking it up with distaste.

“It’s the best! Great hand-feel. Strangely satisfying. Try it.”

Keith sighs but grips it. Positions the teeth under the lip of the bottle cap and levers it, and…

_Ch-kss._

“Huh.”

“Right?”

“It’s really solid.”

 _“Right?”_ Lance grins proudly. “Best participation prize for a hotdog-eating contest ever.”

Keith snorts in spite of himself and drops the thing back in the drawer. He steps across the small room to pull one of the chairs out from the tiny dining table and take a seat, watching Lance mouth the words to the song playing. It’s nice, and strangely cozy, but somehow, as he takes a swig of his beer, he’s struck by a sense of unease.

Lance bopping in the kitchen, stirring tomato sauce in his apron. Going on and on about nothing. Supplying Keith with beer and slippers, a place to lay his head.

It’s all so… _domestic_.

“You don’t have to cook for me,” Keith says suddenly, overwhelmed. He feels like he’s digging in his heels, being dragged toward... _something_.

“I know, that’s what makes me so nice,” Lance answers, his tone simpering in a way that makes Keith wonder if it’s a reference to something. He lifts the spoon from the pot and holds it out. “Wanna taste test it?”

“Not really.”

Lance shrugs, blowing on the spoon. “Suit yourself.” He darts out his tongue and closes his eyes, smacking his lips. “Mm… needs something…” He whirls around, reaching for the cupboard above the sink, rummaging through spice shakers.

Keith looks away, jiggling his knee. The vase he remembers from the last time he was here is still on the table, still full of juniberry flowers. They must be new; there’s no way they could keep for the months it’s been since he washed the lube off his ass and thighs in the kitchen sink after Lance fucked him. 

(Weird. Good, but weird.)

“You got anything on the docket for tomorrow?” Lance calls over his shoulder. “I don’t have to be at the farm until later, so I was thinking of getting brunch at the place downstairs. You interested?”

“Um…” Keith mentally tries to walk himself through having a sit-down meal with Lance at a restaurant. It makes his stomach clench uncomfortably. “I don’t have anything going on, no…”

“Cool, so come with.” Lance’s tone is easy, unbothered. “And to the farm, too, afterwards. Everyone would love to see you, I’m sure. Plus, we can stay for dinner. Free home-cookin’!”

Keith drums his fingers on the table. He’s helped out around the farm enough to grow acquainted with the tasks, to know where he can slip easily into the cogs of the McClain Family Farm machine. The manual labor is almost a relief after the bureaucracy he’s become used to. The damp sweat of his hair, the satisfying ache of his muscles… it calms him, the way training used to, before it began feeling unnecessary.

“Um. Sure.”

“Awesome! I’ll add you to the reservation, and make sure you clean up, Kogane,” he teases, winking. “I ain’t drinkin’ mimosas with no scrub.”

His stomach flips uneasily. Does Lance think this is a…? 

“You really don’t need to, like, do shit for me,” he tries again.

“Aw, are your instincts telling you to run from kindness?” Lance teases, returning to the pot. “You think I wanna date you again?”

“No,” he lies.

Lance laughs. “Well, good,” he says decisively. “I don’t know how many different ways to tell you this, but I’m not exactly _in_ _a dating place_.” He sticks his chin out as he says it, like it’s a delicate term for whatever place he really is.

Keith frowns at his feet. “Then… why the slippers? The beer, the cooking?”

Lance tilts his head curiously. “Seriously? Those are the things you’re fixated on?” Keith shrugs, and Lance puts a fist to his hip, smirking. “I mean, may as well ask why I ate your ass like a man starved. Because I wanted to.”

“But _why_?” Keith presses, still incredulous. Lance must want something in exchange. It’s insanity otherwise.

“Because you have a nice ass!” Lance replies flippantly, shooting a wolfish grin over his shoulder. When Keith’s frown only deepens, he throws his head back and laughs. “Dude, I’m not sure how to, like… Sometimes it’s just nice to be nice, okay? I _like_ doing things for people. It makes _me_ feel good. Extra good if it’s someone I’d like to fuck.”

He cuts his eyes away from Keith on a head-bob that tries too hard to be nonchalant. It tells Keith just how much all of _that_ is still on the table.

Maybe if Keith could be sure he’s not going to embarrass himself again.

“And besides,” Lance goes on, “like I said, I’m not looking to date right now—or ever—and I need to get all this pampering energy out somewhere. So congratulations, Keith Kogane, you’ve won! Slippers and home-cooked meals and maybe even back rubs, if you play your cards right and I feel like showing off. Now get that tight ass over here and taste this sauce, you bastard.”

Keith sighs loudly and levers himself out of the chair to shuffle across the kitchen. “I’m sure it’s _fine_ …”

“Oh, cry me a river.” Lance shoves the spoon in his face. “Blow on it first.”

Glaring directly into Lance’s teasing blue eyes, Keith does so. After a few breaths, he licks the spoon.

“Mm, yeah, baby. Just like that,” Lance croons.

“Shut up.”

“How is it?”

“Fine.”

“Does it need anything?”

“No, it’s fine. Like I said.”

Lance shakes his head in exasperation. “You might actually be the worst person to cook for.”

“I didn’t ask you to cook for me!”

“Nor have you thanked me for it,” Lance answers with a pout, but he doesn’t seem upset. He switches off the burner and lands his hands on his hips. “All right. Time to assemble the lasagna. Wash your hands, Kogane, this is something you can help with. And by the way, that frilly pink apron has your name written all over it.”

***

“You know, I’ve been thinking about it, and it makes sense that you only ever fucked the clone.”

They’re seated at a small, white, wooden table at the restaurant under Lance’s apartment, a farm-to-table bistro that Lance says sources some of its produce from McClain Family Farms. Lance is on his second mimosa, which must be why he doesn’t realize that the words _fucked the clone_ have drawn stares from the people eating next to them.

“...Why do you say that?” Keith asks.

“I never really got the vibe that Shiro was into you.”

The scoff is out of Keith’s throat before he can stop it.

Lance’s expression shifts to amused curiosity. “No? Am I wrong?”

“Very.”

“Oh. Then why were you two always going on and on how you were brothers and shit?”

Keith scoffs again. Lance does not _get it._ “Brothers in _arms_ , Lance,” he explains, like he’s an idiot (which he is). “We were in the military. That’s what you _say_.”

Unimpressed, Lance sips from his flute.

Keith glares at him, waiting for him to say something, but Lance stays quiet. It’s something that Keith normally appreciates about postwar Lance, his ability to let a moment land, but he’s quickly coming to learn that sometimes Lance does it just to annoy him even more. 

Finally, he sighs. “What.”

“Oh, nothing.” The quirk of Lance’s lips says it is _not_ nothing.

The hair at the back of Keith’s neck is practically tingling with frustration. “Just say what you want to say.”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

All right, now he _knows_ Lance is only drawing it out to get on his nerves. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“You really wanna know?” Lance is barely suppressing a smile.

“ _Yes_ , because otherwise you won’t lose that _stupid_ look on your face for the rest of the day.”

“Well, I’m just thinking how I was in the military, too, and I never called you my brother,” Lance says airily, setting down his glass and reaching for one of the sticky, powdered beignets he ordered for them to share. “Because I don’t wanna fuck my brother.”

Keith sucks in a loud breath through his nose. He glares hard as Lance pops the beignet in his mouth and chews.

“I don’t like you,” he tells him.

Lance grins around the bite. “Right back atcha, big guy.” 

***

“What else?”

Keith glances at him. “Huh?”

Lance laughs, tapping his hand on the steering wheel in time to the song playing through the tinny speakers. “C’mon, I can tell you’re stewing. What other Shiro evidence is running through that mulleted head of yours?”

“I’m not _stewing_ …” Keith mutters.

Lance only laughs harder.

Pulse jumping, he throws his hands in the air. “All right, _fine_! How else do you explain that— that Haggar's clone-Shiro stopped attacking me as soon as I told him I loved him?” he asks, staring pointedly. “How’s that for evidence!”

Lance bobs his head, considering. “Okay, I’ll give you that. That’s pretty good. Although, if you were _brothers_ …”

“Not brothers,” Keith grumbles. He vows internally never to tell Lance how he had prefaced the love declaration.

Lance chuckles and pats Keith on the knee. “Okay, okay. Not brothers,” he says placatingly, like Keith is a child.

Keith crosses his arms and tries not to huff. He’s about a second away from smacking Lance’s hand when Lance lets out an excited squeal and reaches for the radio.

“This is it, this is it!” he says, glancing excitedly between Keith and the road. _“...acts like summer and walks like rain, reminds me that there’s time to change, yeah, yeah…”_

Keith frowns. “Um. What?”

“This is the song I was talking about when we were on the porch!” Lance says. “You know! And you didn’t get the reference I was making, and I said you had to hear it over many years…”

“Oh, _this_ song?”

Lance clenches a fist, belts out: “ _But tell meh! Did you sail across the sun!?”_

“I know _this_ song.”

“You do!?” Lance’s grin is broad, his face bright. “ _—And that heaven is overrated,_ holy shit, Keith, you know a thing!”

“I know things.”

 _“...from a shooting star,_ c’mon, man, prove it then!” And Lance puts his fist to Keith’s mouth like he’s holding a microphone, prompting: _“And did you miss me…”_

It must be the Irish coffee Keith had with brunch that gets him to join Lance and tonelessly half-sing into the furl of his fist: _“...while you were looking for yourself out there?”_

***

“So you healed the clone with the power of love.”

Lance is taking pictures of the farm to post on their social media. He’s already gotten one of a rainbow of dirt-caked carrots and is editing it meticulously on his phone while Keith lounges beside him on a hay bale. Clearly his mind has wandered again.

“...I guess?”

Lance whistles, not looking up from his screen. “Honestly, I didn’t know you had it in you, Kogane. That’s some Disney princess shit right there.”

“Shut up.”

“Some Harry Potter shit. Some Sailor Moon shit.”

“Shut _up_.”

Grinning, Lance leans back so their shoulders are flush. Keith watches him suspiciously, waiting for more ridicule. He has straw in his hair.

“So,” Lance says, still not taking his eyes from the phone, “you confess your love, save the clone body, put Shiro’s consciousness back into it, and then…”

Keith looks away, annoyed. “Then he marries someone else, I know.”

Lance jerks his head up. “Wait. That’s _it_?”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’? You know what happened.”

Lance blinks, frowning. “I mean, I know _in general_ ,” he says, waving his hand ineffectually. “But that’s why _you’re_ here. Giving me the inside scoop. I didn’t know you fucked the clone, I didn’t know you confessed your— hold up.” Lance freezes, as though something has just occurred to him. “Does real Shiro even _know_ you fucked the clone? Does he have the clone’s memories!?”

Keith shakes his head ruefully. “Yeah, I wondered about that, too. I think he only knows things from his connection with the Black Lion. I don’t think he, like, integrated memories from the clone’s brain itself.”

“Oh.” Lance sounds thoughtful. “So he doesn’t know you fucked.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Huh. And he doesn’t know you’re in love with him.”

“I mean, obviously not.”

“Why ‘obviously’?”

“Because he married someone else.”

Lance’s head moves backwards in muted surprise, like he was unable to stop himself from reacting. Keith frowns. It’s not like he said anything particularly weird.

“What?” he asks warily.

Lance shrugs with a smile. “You just sound awfully sure that that wouldn’t have happened, if he knew your real feelings.”

“Yeah, well,” Keith says, looking away. “You haven’t been there. For, like… all of it.”

“Why wouldn’t you tell him, then? If you’re so sure he would reciprocate.”

“Some things don’t need to be said.”

Lance’s jaw drops. “Like, ‘ _I love you_ ’? ‘I love you’ doesn’t need to be said!?”

“It was obvious, okay!?” Keith snaps. So many memories are running through his head. “When we first went to the Blade, me and Shiro… He watched me go through the trials. He saw what appeared to me, my greatest fear in the universe at that moment. It was him walking away from me.”

Lance is quiet.

“And when I… was with the clone,” he goes on, “the clone knew. Knew how much I wanted to be with Shiro. And that clone had Shiro’s memories, he must have, somehow. _He_ knew how I felt, or at least could put the pieces together. So the real Shiro should have been able to, too.”

Lance is quiet.

“And,” Keith gestures helplessly, “I piloted Black! The whole time I was looking for Shiro, he was right there, in Black’s consciousness. He must have felt something. He must have been able to tell.”

Lance is still quiet.

Keith sighs. “So yeah. Some things don’t need to be said.” He clenches his jaw, fiddling with a piece of hay as he tries to distract himself from the nauseating stone in his stomach. “...Or maybe that’s just what I told myself,” he whispers.

“You thought you were on the same page.” Lance’s voice is oddly soft, understanding. It twists in Keith’s gut.

“I guess I thought we were just waiting for things to go back to normal,” Keith whispers. “Who needs a distraction like that during a war? But then…”

 _Keith, I’m seeing someone, and I want you to meet him_.

“The war ended...”

 _Keith, I have to show you something_. _Do you think he’ll like it?_

“...and got further and further behind us…”

_Keith, will you be my best man?_

“Until… well.” He glances over. Lance leaning an elbow on one knee, watching him soberly. “...Until I’m giving a speech at the wedding.”

“And getting shitfaced with me, tellin’ me how cute I am.”

Keith snorts and shoves him.

Lance snickers. “Honestly, kudos to you, man. The dude you’re in love with gets married, you have to give the best man speech, and you _don’t_ fuck the first interested guy you see? That’s some self-restraint.”

Keith chuckles. “Well,” he allows himself to say, “if I’d known you fucked like _that_ it probably would have been a different story.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance grins and flexes a bicep. It has no right straining his t-shirt like it does. “Dick game strong?”

“Don’t push it.”

Lance lowers his arm, still smiling. “I’m gonna though, actually.” When Keith cocks his head curiously, he lifts his phone hopefully: “Selfie?”

Keith’s face instantly drops. “Lance, I don’t…”

“You did though!” Lance says eagerly. “You sent me a cute angry one the other day! You just need to work your angles, and—”

“Lance, please,” Keith drawls, “do I look like the kind of person who works their angles?”

“Yes.”

The reply is so blunt that Keith’s jaw clicks shut in surprise. They stare at each other, Lance’s gaze challenging, practically daring Keith to keep up his bluff.

Keith looks away before the hot flush starting in his neck can color his cheeks too obviously.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Yes!” Lance pumps his fist, readying the phone. “Now almost everyone looks best when they’re angled up into the camera, but you don’t want it to look too extreme—”

“Just take it before I change my mind.”

“Roger dodger. Say ‘smize’!”

***

“So wait, why wouldn’t _Shiro_ say anything?”

They’re still on the farm. Dusk is falling, and Lance is making sure all the animals are back in the barns for the night while Keith rakes some leaves, newly fallen by the big double-doors. Lance has tugged on a flannel shirt against the evening chill, tucked into jeans that Keith thinks other farmers must make fun of him for. No one can actually work in jeans that tight, can they?

Keith sighs and rests his chin on his rake. “You’re really dwelling on this, huh.”

“Right,” Lance scoffs, “ _I’m_ dwelling on it, not the guy who’s been holding a torch for… Wait, how old are we again?”

Keith chuckles in spite of himself. He finds laughter coming more easily the longer he spends with Lance, and it’s been…

Christ, has it really been a full day since he landed?

The realization rings Keith’s head like a bell. Twenty-four hours spent with Lance. Time has really flown. And he doesn’t even feel tired from the full day of socializing with someone. If anything he feels… giddy? Is that the word? Punchy, at least, like his brain is floating. Not taking anything too seriously, not questioning Lance’s every move, or his own. It’s easy to laugh, when his boots are caked in mud and he feels weightless behind his eyes.

“Well,” Keith says slowly, putting those thoughts aside for now, “I used to be a cadet, in the Garrison. He could lose his job if people thought anything happened while I was still his student.”

“But we’re… however old we are,” Lance says. “If we go with me being twenty-five now, that makes you twenty-...seven, twenty-eight? With the Quantum of Piss? And Shiro thirty-two, which means you’re…” Lance frowns at his fingers. “One, two…”

“This is why I said to leave the math to Pidge,” Keith says wryly.

Lance drops his hand, a flush blooming in his cheeks. “I’m trying to say it’s not a lot of years! Especially now that we’re all older. It’s not like back when we started Voltron. Shiro’s only a little bit older than you as you are of me!” He cocks his head. “...Did I say that right?”

“Almost definitely not.”

“But you get it.”

“Yes.”

“Then what was stopping him?”

Keith sighs. Frowns. He wishes he knew. He always assumed it was the age difference, or Keith being a former student, or Shiro dating Adam, or the war, or… or any number of things, really. The timing never felt right for Keith to say anything. Maybe Shiro felt the same way.

Or, like he said to Lance earlier in the barn, maybe that’s just what he told himself.

It was years. _Years_ that Keith waited for the time to be right. For Shiro to be single and available (and alive, and actually Shiro). And Keith was happy to wait, because he was sure. _So_ sure. Keith had never been sure about anything in his life.

But.

 _But_...

The truth is that even after Keith brought Shiro back for real, after he found him in the astral plane and they managed to merge his consciousness with the clone’s healthy body, Shiro still felt… different.

It didn’t happen right away. When Shiro woke up and he looked at Keith and said, “You saved me,” warmth had glowed inside of Keith’s chest, suffusing him with contentment that he had not known since Shiro first went missing. 

_This is it_ , he’d thought, holding Shiro tight to his chest, his eyes prickling. _This is right. Now we’re back to normal._

But Shiro hadn’t returned to piloting the Black Lion.

In fact, Shiro seemed to have no desire to rekindle his connection with Black whatsoever, had been content to have Keith pilot her all the way back to Earth. After a few quintants, Shiro had even stopped sleeping in Black, opting instead to bunk in Green with Pidge, and that—

Keith remembers the dull burn that left in his chest, sand kicked over a fire.

He’d tried to tell himself that Shiro just needed time, that existing for phoebs on the astral plane with no body and no way to communicate with the Paladins had meant he needed space. Pidge could give him space, physically and mentally; Black was larger than Green, sure, but Black also was home to Keith, Krolia, and a teleporting space wolf. Of course Shiro would want to get away.

It just didn’t make sense why he _stayed_ away.

Even now, the final months of the war are hazy in Keith’s mind, not so much images as bone-weary sensations. He remembers feeling molded to Black’s pilot’s chair, his hands clenched on her controls so hard they pulled away shaking. He remembers brutal insomnia, remembers shaking himself awake to discover himself giving a weary pep-talk to the other Paladins over their comms, so canned he could literally do it in his sleep. He remembers being afraid—so, so fucking afraid—that one of them wouldn’t make it back.

But perhaps more than anything else, he remembers how, in quiet moments with the team, moments when he should have been at his most relaxed, he still felt like the ground beneath him could give way at any moment. He hadn’t felt that way since the early days. The days when he thought, _Maybe these people_. The days before he retook his rightful place at Shiro’s side.

But this time it was Shiro who made him feel like he was tilting on his axis. Shiro, who was rarely in the same room as Keith, unless the other Paladins were there, too. Shiro, whose customary kindliness and warmth would have been appreciated if they were not so rare. Shiro, who urged him to have fun and spend time with his loved ones, and seemed somehow not to know that he himself was at the top of that extremely short list.

And then…

 _Keith, I’m seeing someone, and I want you to meet him_.

It’s like Lance said. Keith thought they were on the same page. But sometimes Keith wonders if they were even reading the same book.

Lance gasps, breaking Keith from his reverie. “Oh my god, what if he went on the Kerberos mission just to put distance between you,” he says, eyes shining. “So that he wouldn’t be _tempted_. By your whole, like, bad boy thing.” He lays the back of his hand across his forehead and swoons.

Keith chuckles. “Lance.”

“And then you meet again, and you’re all grown up, breaking into facilities to save him and shit? But still, the implications!” Lance makes his eyebrows go furrowed, sets his mouth in a serious line. “My feelings for Keith,” he says, voice low. “They are less than appropriate, given my station and our respective ages. I must never act upon them, for I am a man of honor.”

In spite of himself, Keith snorts. Lance’s impression of Shiro is surprisingly good.

“Patience yields focus,” Lance says, laying a fist over his heart as he stares into the middle distance with an expression of deep earnestness. “But I must stop focusing on… _dat ass_.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Keith snickers, shaking his head. “Lance…”

Lance is grinning ear to ear, clearly proud of himself. As soon as he knows Keith is looking, he transforms back into Shiro, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. “‘Twas for this that I launched myself into space, perhaps never to return. Now I shall sacrifice myself, devote myself to the greater good, for I may not devote myself to…” Lance’s expression falters a bit; he fights a chuckle. “To that… little emo kid from my class who I’m secretly in love with.”

Smiling, Keith crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “I think you lost it a little at the end, there.”

“Shall I compare thee to a fingerless glove!”

“Lance…”

“Shh, hush, Keith. I’m trying to recite you the poetry I definitely wrote you, because I’m Shiro,” Lance says huskily, so obviously forcing down a laugh. His eyebrows are twitching with the effort. “Roses are red. Your, uh, favorite color’s red, too…”

“La _-ance._ ”

They’re both barely holding it together.

“Patience yields focus-s-s-s…” Lance’s snicker nearly overtakes him but he manages to keep it down. The frantic searching for a rhyme is so clear in Lance’s eyes.

Keith feels like he’s on the edge of his seat.

“Sooo…” Lance’s face scrunches up. He’s stalling, stalling… “So let’s screw!”

Keith’s laugh rings into purple sunset sky.

***

“Hey, it’s a wonderful life.”

Keith side-eyes Lance, on the other end of the couch in his living room. They’re both dead-tired from the day of work, sucking down beers. He’s learned Lance gets a little philosophical in such a state, but still. It’s an odd declaration to make.

“...Yeah, I guess.”

“No, _It’s_ _A Wonderful Life_.” Lance gestures at the TV. “It’s available to stream.”

“Never seen it.”

 _“Seriously?”_ Lance whips his head toward Keith, his eyebrows arched high. His voice even cracks, like old times. “It’s a classic! I cry like a baby every time.”

“Oh.” It’s one of _those_ movies. He rests his chin in his hand. “I don’t really cry at movies.”

“Well, you haven’t seen _It’s A Wonderful Life_.” Grinning, Lance points the remote at the TV to select it. 

Keith sighs loudly as the MGM lion roars on the screen. “You’re only going to be disappointed when you end up being the only one crying,” he warns him.

“We’ll see,” Lance sing-songs, his feet swinging side to side on the coffee table.

Keith takes another deep breath, sips his beer, and straps in for the next two hours.

Sure enough, when the movie ends, Lance is sniffling. He wipes at his eyes, draws in a big wet breath, and lets it out from his congested throat. “ _Man_ ,” he breathes. “Ugh. it really does get me every fucking time.”

He drops his head back against the couch and then abruptly jerks it up again. He whips toward Keith, craning his neck into Keith’s space, studying through narrowed eyes.

Keith looks back at him, dry-eyed and deadpan. “Yes?”

Lance leans even closer. Keith can make out how red his nose has gone, how shiny his eyes in the light of the credit screen. “...Well?”

“...Nope.”

Lance reels back, squawking in indignation. “ _Excuse_ me? Not even a _single_ tear?”

“Nope.”

“Not even at the end!?”

“It had a happy ending. Why would I cry at a happy ending?”

Lance lets out a scoff so strong that even Keith is mildly impressed. “Okay, putting a pin in _that_ discussion… What about when he realizes all the people whose lives he’s made better?”

“Nope, no tears.”

“What about when it turned out his brother died because he wasn’t there to save him?”

Keith frowns. “Nope.”

“What about when he told the pharmacist that he was gonna poison someone and the guy was so grateful even though he’d just learned his son died in the war!?”

Keith screws up his face. “Oh, yeah. Fuck that guy. And nope.”

 _“Ugghhhh…”_ Lance drags his palms down his face in exasperation. “I can’t believe you, dude! Come on! The end of it, when everyone donates all that money to him so the Savings & Loan can keep functioning, and his brother comes in and says, ‘To my brother George, the richest man in town’!”

Keith bobs his head. Even he can admit, “That part was good.”

“Thank god, you’re not a complete robot,” Lance sighs. “But it figures you would like the brother talk.”

Keith gives him a flat look.

“You’re very predictable, you know that?”

“And yet you couldn’t predict that I wouldn’t cry, despite me telling you ahead of time,” Keith mutters, taking a sip of his by-now-warm beer.

Lance, however, is on a roll. “I mean,” he drawls, gesturing hard at his own chest, “I’m dead inside and _I_ still cry at this movie, so…”

And…

And okay, that. _That._

What the fuck is up with _that_? What does Lance _mean_ by that? He’s said that or something like it _so many times_ at this point that Keith wonders if it’s his way of trying to goad Keith into asking about it.

So, “Why do you keep saying that?” Keith asks, unable to keep the note of annoyance from creeping into his voice. 

“Hm? Oh.” Lance almost turns to look at Keith before seeming to grasp what he’s asking. The smile drops from his face abruptly. He shrugs, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “Because… I am?”

Keith frowns. “You don’t seem like it.”

“No?”

“No. Like just now, you were joking and shit—”

“Well, that’s because you’re so easy to make fun of,” Lance interrupts cheekily.

Keith purses his lips but plows on. “And at Pidge’s party, you were all yelling and playing beer pong…”

“Oh, that,” Lance says. He waves his hand dismissively. “That’s different. That’s my need to perform.”

Keith gives him a skeptical look.

“See,” Lance says, glancing at the ceiling like he’s thinking of how best to explain it. “You’ve heard the phrase ‘three’s a crowd’? Well, for Lance McClain, three’s an _audience_. Two-plus other people in the room and I go into entertainer mode. It’s…” He sighs, pursing his lips. “Honestly, it’s kind of exhausting.”

Keith blinks. He feels like he could be knocked over with a feather. Lance finds social situations draining? Seriously?

“But you’re so good at it,” he says dumbly.

Lance’s smile is oddly rueful. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” Keith insists. He feels that this is inexplicably important, communicating to Lance just how… how much Keith… “I wish I— could do that,” he says haltingly. “What you do. Even a little bit.” His life would be so much easier, he thinks, if he had even one-tenth of Lance’s gregariousness. This feels like Lance’s Altean marks all over again, learning that Lance thinks of them as disfiguring rather than beautifying, highlights to his laughing eyes.

It makes Keith want to scream at him, just a little bit.

Lance rests the back of his head on the couch, looking over at Keith. His thin brows are pinched together over dark, imploring eyes. “Yeah?”

Keith swallows. Nods. Wonders just where his BAC is at right now. “Yeah.”

The corner of Lance’s mouth tugs back, his eyes lighting just a little. “The key is you can’t be afraid to make a fool of yourself.”

“I’m not _afraid_ to make a fool of myself,” Keith grumbles, looking away. “I just don’t want to.”

Lance chuckles indulgently, like Keith has said something incorrigible. He reaches over and slaps a warm hand down on Keith’s thigh, his gaze softening to something earnest. “Well, thanks, man.”

“Sure.” Keith’s chest feels weird. Tight. He looks away. “But… you didn’t think that’s what I meant? When I asked?”

“Yeah. I guess because it’s not what _I_ meant when I said it.” Lance huffs. Withdraws his hand from Keith’s thigh to start picking at the beer label again. “I… Hell, man,” he breaks off with a snort and a half-grin, glancing furtively at Keith. “Are you sure you wanna get into this? You’re, like, not exactly Mr. Emotionally Available, you know?”

Keith wants to muster the indignation to glare but… “Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “But you listened to me talk about everything with Shiro, so… I guess I might as well return the favor?” He shrugs a shoulder, pulling his lips to one side uncertainly. He couldn’t even say himself why he wants to know, why he’s curious about where Lance is at emotionally.

Maybe it’s because Lance is now the only other person who knows how he feels about Shiro. Maybe it makes him want to know something about Lance. An equal exchange.

Lance hums, nodding. He begins to peel back the label but it sticks too hard. “I…” he starts. Stops. Licks his lips. Opens his mouth to try again. “Ever since Allura died, I just… haven’t been the same?” His voice cracks, almost questioning.

Instantly, Keith feels a sinking sensation under his skin. Like his nerves are bunching into his toes and fingertips.

“And I know it’s been five years,” Lance goes on, brows knitted fiercely, “and I know that’s pathetic, but sometimes I feel like… that was my one chance. I loved her so much, and she sacrificed herself for reality as we know it, and… and that was it.”

He huffs a laugh. Looks over sheepishly from under the lengthening tendrils of hair that brush his forehead, and Keith is struck by the moisture glistening in his eyes.

“I tried dating, Keith, I really did.”

(As though Keith is asking him for the evidence. As though Keith is asking him to _prove_ that he can’t move on.)

“Dating apps, mixers, weddings… Matt even set me up with this girl he met DJing.” Lance presses the flat of his fingers over his sternum and rubs, like it’s pained. “And I could do it, kind of. I could ask someone out. I could learn about them, remember their favorite flowers, their birthday. Treat them right. But it was all…” He gestures vaguely in front of himself, like a veil before his face. “External. I was only going through the motions.”

Wisps of memory float back to Keith.

An image of Lance at a family wedding, an unfamiliar woman on his arm.

Veronica: _You had that thing with that girl at the farmer’s market. What happened with her, huh?_

Shiro: _I bet Lance needed it, too. From what I hear, he doesn’t see much of anyone besides his family._

And Keith’s own dismissal of the indications. His own lack of concern for Lance, when Lance was so clearly hurting. His stomach twists unpleasantly.

Lance tilts his head back against the couch, speaking to the ceiling almost wistfully. “It used to be so easy. I could throw myself into a person. Every pretty boy or girl I saw, I’d think, ‘But what if they’re _the one_?’” He shakes his head, self-deprecating. “I’d do anything to get their attention, to get them to like me. I mean, you remember.” He half-chuckles, glancing at Keith on an insincere smile. “Loverboy Lance, right?”

Keith looks back, tongue-tied. Unsure. What to do, what to say.

“I once told Brenda it felt back then like my heart was a sponge,” Lance says. The label is curling, tearing beneath his short fingernails, leaving white behind. “It could soak up anything. Get overfull, need wringing out. I cried a lot on the castleship, incidentally.” He chuckles wryly, looks over. “I’m actually not sure if you knew that. I really only told Hunk and Shiro.”

Surprise stings through Keith. “Shiro?”

 _Shiro_ knew? Lance went to speak to Shiro on his own, to ask for Shiro’s advice? Or else just to vent and confide in him, the way Keith did? And Shiro never breathed a word of it, never let on that he had taken on the task of comforting Lance, as well as Keith—and perhaps Hunk and Pidge, too. Hell, maybe even Allura and Coran sought refuge in Shiro’s thoughtfulness and reliability.

How did he never consider before that Shiro might act as a sounding board for more people than just Keith?

“Yeah.” Lance shrugs. “I mean, he was our leader.”

Keith’s chest turns heavy with guilt. He’s well aware that he never measured up to Shiro, that he could never offer the same compassion, the same rock-solid presence as the original Black Paladin. But he also remembers wanting. He remembers trying. He remembers trying so fucking hard.

“I was your leader, too,” Keith says quietly. He barely knows why. “You never told me.”

Lance looks at him so gently it hurts. A delicate eyebrow lifts, nudging at a memory. “I tried, dude. You told me to leave the math to Pidge.”

The moment falls into Keith’s lap like a heavy skeleton key, the mate to unlock a box he’s puzzled over for years. He remembers that conversation, one of his last with any of the other Paladins before he left for the Blade. Before he left what he thought was for good.

It had struck him as odd, then, Lance coming to see him in his quarters. It certainly wasn’t something they did regularly, spend time alone together—not after that failed bonding moment, Keith made certain of it. And sure, Lance had accepted him as the leader of Voltron, but only after he had publicly and viciously rejected the very idea. How was Keith supposed to feel? He figured Lance was just trying to save face, saying he “respected the Lion’s decision.” And even on that first mission, when Keith was at the end of his rope and turned to Lance— _Lance_ —at his lowest moment, Lance had offered no words of encouragement, only a teeth-gritted “now we gotta fix it.”

Only... now, when Keith looks back, and he thinks of Lance then, lonely and striving, desperate for approval and getting nothing but rejection after rejection— _did he spend a full half-hour in the Black Lion begging it to accept him or is the ache in Keith’s chest remembering that wrong?—_ he sees instead a boy far from home who cried to the universe that he would no longer be second-best. And when the universe told him he _would_ be—would, in fact, never be anything more—swallowed down the shards of his glass-house pride and pledged his support to Keith. To the one the universe _did_ choose.

And while he’s thinking back on that, he can’t help but recall his own betrayed incredulity when Red accepted Lance— _Lance_ —without trial. Red, who had refused to answer Keith’s call until he almost died falling out of the airlock in front of her stoic muzzle. Red, who had since become an extension of Keith’s own consciousness, the single addition to his very short list of entities he trusted implicitly.

Number one: Shiro. Number two: Red. That was _it._

So how could Red turn around and accept Lance as her new Paladin when she knew how Keith felt? About Lance and, more importantly, about being the leader of Voltron. How desperately Keith wanted that to be a temporary appointment. How Keith must wonder, seeing Red accept Lance so readily, if he and Red had never actually been the match he thought they were. If Lance was the rightful Red Paladin, Allura the Blue, and Keith certainly not the Black. That was Shiro. Always would be Shiro.

(But maybe he had it all wrong. Maybe she knew, somehow. Maybe she saw something in Lance that resonated, some unshakeable, diamond core, forged under the pressure of loneliness, rejection, too many tears. Maybe she sensed that he would become not only the steadfast right hand of Voltron, of Keith, but also someday Keith’s confidant. Companion. Friend.)

So hindsight turns the kaleidoscope. Casts Lance’s unexpected visit to his quarters in more melancholy hues, amethyst and plum, where before it was covered in caution-tape yellow. Back then, having Lance in his space had set Keith’s teeth on edge, made him want to fold in on himself, protect himself. He was so sure Lance was there to berate him for something, and if not that, then to make fun. It was _Lance_ , after all.

Instead, Lance had gone on and on about numbers and Lions and counting, and who counts down to one with their pinky finger, anyhow? Keith had watched him with something like suspicion before Lance had finally revealed that he felt like he shouldn’t be the Red Paladin anymore, that he should step aside and leave Voltron.

And that—

That made no sense.

Red had chosen Lance so unquestioningly that Keith _knew_ it made no sense. Keith was the one who didn’t belong. Keith, who had never been a team player. Keith, who had brought Shiro back but brought him back wrong.

Keith, who had already done his own math.

He frowns at Lance now, nearly as confused as he felt years ago. “That was you trying to…”

“Open up to you, yeah,” Lance confirms, hunched a little sheepishly. “I figured coming to you with something concrete would do better than just, you know. Bursting into tears because I wasn’t good enough.” He laughs, sounding forced. “Ah, well.”

Keith frowns. “Is that what you would do when Shiro was the leader?”

“Hmm, could be! Hard to remember that far back.”

Keith scrutinizes him. Lance grins back, showing all his teeth. The message is clear: the wall is back up.

After a moment, Keith huffs and shakes his head. “...Whatever.”

Lance snickers. “Look at that. I think I reached my discussing-our-feelings limit before you did!”

“Told you I didn’t mind,” Keith mutters, indignant.

“Sure, sure. Now it’s time for you to tell me something confusing but vaguely positive, like, ‘Leave the cooking to Hunk’,” says Lance, frowning as he uses his gravelly, eighteen-year-old Keith voice, “or, ‘Leave the push-ups to Shiro.”

Keith looks away and grumbles, “Pretty sure I said it nicer than that.”

“‘Leave the poetry to Coran!’”

“Okay, I would definitely never say _that_.”

Lance curls forward on a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the sides. His marks highlight his nascent laugh lines, the ones he doesn’t have yet but will someday, as sure as time.

“I, uh, bought a new air mattress.”

Keith blinks. It takes his brain a moment to catch up. Lance is watching him, head tilted.

“Oh,” Keith says.

“You know, because of…”

“Yeah.”

For all they’ve talked about Shiro today, for all the conversation topics they’ve delved into that Keith didn’t anticipate sharing with anyone, let alone Lance, they have not spoken concretely about what happened the last time Keith was here.

And though Keith knows Lance hinted last night that he was still up for casual intimacy if Keith was, Keith isn’t totally sure he trusts himself not to fuck that up again.

(Even though the way Lance smiles, soft and lopsided, has something tugging in his gut, yanking him forward.)

He resists.

(For now.)

They set up the air mattress in the living room—Lance’s new bedroom is larger than the one at the farmhouse but the layout leaves no space for an air mattress. Luna watches with greedy interest from her cat tree until Lance shoos her out and closes the pocket door. It makes a low rumble as its wheels slide across the wood floor.

Just before it fully closes, Lance pauses. “Oh, hey, uh…”

Keith lifts his head.

Lance bites his lip, toying with the latch of the door. “Thanks for listening.”

Heat crawls bashfully into Keith’s stomach. “No problem,” he mutters, looking away.

“I know it’s not really your thing, but…”

“Yeah, no, yeah,” Keith stammers, waving a hand. “I just, um. No problem. It was… I was glad to do it.” He gives a sharp, decisive nod, fighting the flush that crawls up his neck.

“Well, thanks anyway. It means a lot.”

Keith swallows. The harder he fights this agonized blush, the hotter it blooms. “Well…” he drawls, still fidgeting with his blankets as he wonders what to say in response. Eventually, he settles on: “Likewise.”

That seems to satisfy Lance. He smiles tiredly, his eyes half-closed as his temple rests on the doorjamb. “Cool,” he murmurs. He raps one knuckle on the door as he straightens. “Night, man.”

“Night.”

Lance tugs the door closed. His footsteps pad off down the hallway, followed by the pitter-pat of Luna’s light, hurried paws. After a moment, all is still.

Keith turns off the light and crawls under the covers.

It’s not until he has nearly drifted off that he realizes he just spent more than twenty-four hours with Lance, and he doesn’t feel mentally exhausted as he closes his eyes. Instead, he’s satisfied, relaxed, eager but not desperate for the easy warmth of sleep.

And they didn’t even fuck.

Weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i come bearing klance gifts in celebration of all the blue mail-in ballots! please forgive these two red paladins, hopefully they live in a future without republicans and don't have to be ashamed of the association.
> 
> thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs) for the beta read!
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter.


	6. Even When I Know You’re Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all quick tw in strikethrough as usual: ~~remember those rough sex/emotional sex tags? well those are especially relevant in this chapter, and the emotional sex tag MEANS emotional, in a lot of ways, not just loving. perhaps confusing and messy sex is a good way to put it.~~
> 
> anyway, please watch yourselves if these could be triggers for you!

As usual, Keith forgets his own birthday.

It comes while he’s helping rebuild and resupply a hospital bombed by the Galra. Medical facilities the universe over were targeted strategically—a war crime under all galactic ordinances, not just human ones—and usually completely ransacked. Their work on this one is provisional; if they do well, they could rake in many more similar contracts. And doing well, for an organization run and staffed entirely by Galra, really means doing twice as well as their competitors.

Keith wears his Voltron jacket as often as possible and hopes it helps combat what Lance calls his “resting bitch face.”

The day itself barely registers. It stopped being an important date to him when his dad died, and then stopped really being a _date_ to him when he began living in space, away from Earth’s orbital rotations around the sun. It’s not until he checks his datapad days later that he finds well wishes from all the Paladins. In order of receipt:

**Hunk**  
happy birthday dude!! eat some good food and don’t work too hard!

Keith smiles.

**Shiro**  
Happy birthday, Keith! 🎂 Let me know when you’re back in town. Curtis and I would love to take you out, our treat!

Keith grimaces.

**Pidge**  
hbd loser! miss your face! ill have a jelloshot in your honor

Keith rolls his eyes.

**Lance**  
 **[Voicemail: 36 secs]  
** Happy birthday to you happy birthday to you happy birthday dear Keith happy birthday to you. Hey man hope you’re having a great birthday this is a McClain family tradition. On a person’s birthday you call and as soon as they pick up you start singing so yeah. Honestly probably good I got voicemail since I think you would have just hung up on me. Accept kindness already dude it’s your birthday! All right cool let me know when you’re back in town and we can hang bye.

Keith doesn’t listen to the voicemail—listening to someone sing Happy Birthday to him would be akin to nails on a chalkboard, but far more deeply embarrassing—but the transcript does jog something in his gut, recognition tugging like guilt.

**Keith**  
Hey thanks for the voicemail. I just realized I must have missed YOUR birthday, so  
Happy belated birthday

To his surprise, Lance’s reply comes within the next few minutes, while he’s pulling off his dusty clothes. He leans over his datapad to check.

**Lance**  
lol np dude  
and u didnt really miss it, u sent me ur very first selfie that day  
quite a gift lmao

The memory lights up in his mind. The picture of Lance in his pink tank top, smoking outside. That was his birthday?

Keith frowns. It’s not how he pictured Lance spending birthdays, alone with his thoughts. He wonders if it’s been that way since Allura died. The idea coils sourly under his skin. 

**Keith**  
What else did you do that day

 **Lance  
** uhh not much, had cake with the family and then went home and smoked in the backyard

 **Keith**  
By yourself?

 **Lance**  
yep

His fingers drum on the datapad restlessly. That’s… not right. Lance shouldn’t be alone like that on his birthday. _Keith_ is fine with being alone on his birthday, but Lance? Before Allura, Lance wasn’t… Lance would never... 

It’s just not Lance, all right?

**Keith**  
Next time let me know and I can try to get some time off

The app lets Keith know that Lance has seen his message, and then that Lance is typing. 

Not typing.

Typ— not typing.

Aaand typing again, long enough for Keith to almost regret his overture, to convince himself that Lance is going to make fun of him for it. Uncertainty is clawing up his throat, making his hands itch to send an _actually nevermind_ , when—

**Lance**  
u got it buddy (:

He looks at it.

Squints.

...That’s it? That’s what took Lance forever to type?

He quickly reads back through their texts. Did he say something weird? He was being pretty nice, he thought. He just wants Lance to stop being sad all the time. If anything, _Lance_ is the one being weird, not him. Keith is just being a good friend. 

_Whatever_ , he decides, and puts down the datapad.

***

The next time Keith visits, his red slippers have been on his feet for approximately thirty seconds before Lance cocks his head and asks, “What’s up, man? You seem stressed.”

They’ve exchanged barely five words, and honestly he doesn’t try to hide his moods around Lance much anymore, but he’s still surprised it took so little time for him to comment on it.

“I’m fine,” he lies, trudging up the stairs.

Lance crosses his arms and watches him crest the staircase with heavy, plodding steps. The weather is unseasonably warm for November; Lance is wearing thinner joggers and a soft t-shirt that Keith himself has stolen on previous visits. The outline of Lance’s dick is obvious through the pants—the way it was last time, increasingly drawing Keith’s eye over the course of the visit—but not even that can distract Keith for long.

So, okay. He must be seriously stressed.

Keith sighs heavily. “All right. Work fucking sucks,” he admits.

“Theeere it is.” Lance gives a satisfied grin and jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, there’s a new cafe around the corner so I’ve been fucking around with tea lately. I’ve heard tell some of that shit is supposed to calm ya down.”

“I don’t need to calm down,” Keith grumbles as he follows Lance. He tries to ignore the taut jiggle of Lance’s ass through the thin fabric of his sweats. He’s not even sure _that_ is on the proverbial table, though he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t wondered.

“I know you don’t,” Lance says airily. “I know you’d rather stew and vent. The tea’s for me.”

And despite how transparent the lie is, Keith finds himself begrudgingly endeared by it. Lance has obviously learned that Keith can (sometimes, barely) be dragged to water, but cannot under any circumstances be made to drink, if he thinks someone else wants him to.

Once inside the kitchen, Lance pulls one of the chairs out from the small table and points decisively at it. “Sit,” he says, and Keith pauses briefly, bristling at the instruction before deciding that he was going to sit anyway, so he does.

The kitchen table looks the same as ever, though the juniberry flowers are a little shriveled and the water is low and murky in the vase. As Lance fills the kettle and sets it on the burner, Keith lifts a hand to touch the tip of a fuschia petal. It falls away between his fingers. He stares at it dully.

“While we wait for the water to boil,” Lance says, pulling a few small paper pouches from the cupboard and setting them in front of Keith, “pick whichever one sounds good to you. They’re all pretty tasty.”

Keith looks blankly at the names of the teas. His brain is not functioning. 

“I don’t care,” he finally says, shoving them back in Lance’s direction. “You pick.”

“Decision fatigue? From Keith Kogane, owner of the oh-so-cleverly-named ‘my wolf’? Well, I never.” With a wry smile, Lance takes the bags back.

Keith groans and drops his head into his arms. “That’s kind of it, though,” he grumbles into the crook of his elbow. “I can’t decide anything anymore, but everyone keeps asking me to.”

“That sounds hard.”

“It is!”

“I know, man, I wasn’t making fun of you.” Lance’s voice is gentle, turning wry when he adds, “For once.”

“Oh.” He lifts his head to meet Lance’s gaze before it flicks back down to the tea bags. “Sorry, then,” he says, but Lance only waves a hand, his attention on their tea selection.

Is it weird that he feels disappointed that Lance _wasn’t_ teasing him? Honestly, he doesn’t so much mind Lance making fun of him anymore. He almost craves it, in a way, Lance’s ability to make something previously overwhelming seem laughable, silly. Which is… odd, considering how it used to almost enrage him. But now he feels as though they’ve become clearer, the teasing and inside jokes—he can see them for what they are: attempts to establish a rapport, a back-and-forth that has become increasingly effortless as Keith stops trying to fight it. It’s as though he’s stepped inside of some kind of veil Lance had drawn around himself that previously obfuscated Keith’s gaze, made him think Lance’s teasing was meant to hurt rather than heal. Or, more likely, _Lance_ has stepped inside of some invisible boundary _Keith_ set, years ago, and Keith let him in before he realized it.

Or perhaps they both stepped towards each other, simultaneously. 

It’s hard to say.

Regardless, Keith heaves a sigh, shredding the fallen petal between his fingers as he allows the day’s worries to pour from him. “It’s just— I feel like I had _one_ big idea in me,” he says, “this whole humanitarian thing—and that was it. I— I peaked! With that. Like a one-hit wonder or something.”

Lance hums thoughtfully, looking between two tea pouches, seeming to weigh them in his mind. He doesn’t say anything more, content to let Keith vent.

So Keith vents. “But now, because I kind of have ownership over this whole thing, I also own all of our failures. Every time we get turned down for a contract, I feel like Kolivan is looking at me like, ‘You really thought this would work? I should have known better than to trust a child.’” 

“I’m sure he doesn’t think that,” Lance says easily, seeming to decide on one of the teas. He spoons some into a steeper and gets some mugs down from the cupboard.

“I feel like I did when Shiro… died,” Keith goes on, stumbling a bit over the difficult words. He’s aware that across the room, Lance has turned to face him in silence. He focuses his own attention on the tattered pieces of petal. “Like… everyone’s _looking_ at me now.”

Quietly, Lance asks, “That’s how you felt when we lost Shiro?”

“I mean, yeah.” Keith shrugs, trying to make it nonchalant, but it’s jerky with bottled-up frustration. Lance seems to sense this; he turns to place the steepers in the mugs, and relief floods through Keith. The words come more easily again. “It was like a bad dream. You have to take the final, but you never went to the class. I have to lead, but I’ve never done it before. Never even followed anyone but Shiro, and I… knew I was no Shiro.”

For all the times he shouted this at the other Paladins—at Lance, specifically, even—this feels the weightiest. Here, in the quiet kitchen, the ensuing silence unbroken but for the rapid heating of the water in Lance’s tea kettle.

When Lance speaks, his words feel careful, measured. “Keith, no one expected you to _be Shiro_. We all—”

“Well, you were right, then,” Keith cuts in bitterly. “I’m not. I’m not a leader. Not like Shiro, not like Kolivan, not like… like Allura. And I never have been.”

He buries his face in his arms. The words feel like too much, too real; somehow even harder to say than admitting he was in love with Shiro, that night on the Holts’ balcony. But even as he cringes inside, even as his heartbeat pulses with humiliation, he knows that it’s not that he’s saying these words in front of Lance specifically; it’s just that he’s saying them at all.

After a few more moments, the kettle begins to whistle. There’s click of the knob of the stovetop, the clatter of ceramic, the sound of hot water pouring, and then—

“Keith. Dude.” Lance sets the tea in front of him and takes the seat across. “You’re a great leader. I’m serious!” he insists, when Keith lifts his head to give him a flat look. “You were a fantastic leader. We couldn’t have won the war without you.”

“You couldn’t have won the war without forming Voltron.”

“Yeah, exactly, and we needed the Black Paladin for that. A.k.a., _you_.”

“Shiro was a much better Black Paladin than I ever was.”

“You think so?”

Keith stares at him. Is Lance crazy? What a stupid question. “I mean, yes? Obviously? He was a natural. Look how I was those first few phoebs flying Black. I was a disaster.”

Lance purses his lips thoughtfully before shaking his head. “Nah, you were just different,” he says, with finality, “and, to be fair, you had a much steeper learning curve than he did. Think of all those training exercises we did right at the beginning. We didn’t do any of that after you took over Black. Plus, Shiro was used to being a leader. Hell, he was even used to being a leader _in space_! He piloted a mission to Kerberos! Meanwhile, you had only ever really worked by yourself, with no one else counting on you. Of course he took to it more naturally than you did.” 

Something in Lance’s tone slices through to his core, a honed edge through flesh. There’s nothing pitying in it, barely even sympathetic. It’s matter-of-fact, as though Lance has considered Keith’s argument and rejected it on its merits as self-evidently false. It sounds… almost believable.

“You really think so?” Keith asks, trying not to let on just how badly he needs Lance to confirm it.

“For sure,” he answers simply. “Honestly, I— Look, I love Shiro, and working with him was quite literally a dream come true. He’s the reason I became a pilot! But I had never felt as good about myself as I did flying Red when you were in Black.”

Keith’s chest feels tight. “Really?”

Lance gives a decisive nod. “Yeah, man. Like, I had been in Red for a while by that point, but I never felt as in sync with Shiro as I did with you.”

Keith’s chest feels tight and _warm_.

“Of course, there’s a reason for that,” Lance chuckles.

“O-oh?” Keith stammers, unsure why his tongue feels thick in his mouth. He looks down to his tea, swirling and suffused with dark flavor from the steeper. He dunks it a few times, just to give his hands something to do. “What’s that?”

Lance tilts his head curiously. “Um, the clone? Duh?”

Keith’s body floods with… something. Relief? It must be relief. “Ohh.”

“Yeah. It, like, literally was not Shiro. So no wonder.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, I’m just saying. Being your second was so… fulfilling,” Lance says wistfully. “I know that we didn’t really start to get to know each other until Shiro’s wedding, but I still felt, um, close to you, somehow, when we worked together.”

Keith finds himself nodding slowly. The words surface in his memory. “We do make a good team.”

“We do,” Lance agrees with a small, quiet smile. “And you make a good leader, Keith. I’m sure this stuff with the Blade will—”

“Holy shit.”

The idea occurs to Keith. It feels like a stroke of genius, bursting into being behind his eyes. Obvious yet previously unconsidered. Perfect. A real lightbulb moment—the first he’s truly had in years.

_We do make a good team._

“You should do it for us.”

Silence hovers between them. Confusion.

Lance blinks. “What?”

“PR stuff,” Keith says, eagerly waving his hand in the air. “Consulting stuff, branding stuff. I don’t know what you call it, exactly. Whatever you’ve been doing down here, you should do it for us, _up there_.”

Lance, up there. The idea fizzes and foams in his chest, inflating it like a balloon.

Across the table, Lance’s eyes widen skeptically. “For an intergalactic humanitarian organization? Keith, I’ve only ever worked with farms, that’s hardly—”

“But you’re good at it,” Keith insists. “You’re really good at it.”

The laugh Lance lets out is only half-humble, demurring. “I mean, sure, I’m good at what I do, but… but what I do is for farms, small businesses—not for anything like the Blade.”

“Lance,” Keith says seriously. He glances down to Lance’s hands, cupped around his mug of tea, and considers taking one in his just to convey how earnest he is about this. But he ponders it too long; the moment passes. He raises his eyes to Lance’s again, holding his gaze. “I know it would be different for you. But we need you. Or someone _like_ you. And I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do this for us.”

After a moment, Lance sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, I guess I could draw up a sample presentation or something,” he allows. “So you guys could see what kinds of stuff I can do and decide from there.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Keith agrees with relief. “Just something to show Kolivan.”

Lance smiles at him over his mug. “You got it, team leader.”

***

“Soo… you remember how we were talking about that ‘math’?”

Flurries swirl lightly beyond the windows of Lance’s living room. The warmth of the holidays has been exchanged for the seemingly endless, dreary chill of January, counteracted by copious fleece blankets, the spiked hot chocolate warming Keith’s hands, and the small, homey fire that Lance painstakingly fussed over in the hearth. Credits are rolling on yet another of Lance’s (failed) attempts to see if Keith will cry at a movie, finding Keith bundled in a blanket, completely dry-eyed with a sleeping Luna in his lap. 

Across the couch, a cozy-looking Lance is apparently over his indignation at Keith’s lack of tears in favor of this new topic. Er, old topic.

It takes Keith a tick to catch up. “Oh. You mean when I was here a while ago?”

“Yeah.” Lance nods, sighing. “I wanted to ask you a question about that..”

“...Okay…” Keith is racking his brain but he can’t come up with a way that this could break bad for him. “Go ahead.”

“Because you left really soon after that. For the Blade.”

Keith nods. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, and I… Actually, I…” Lance winces a little, like what he’s about to say is embarrassing. “I always wondered if you left because of me. Because of my ‘math’.”

Keith tilts his head inquisitively. “What?”

“Well, I said there were one too many Paladins, and then before I knew it, you removed yourself from the equation.”

“Oh. No, I… I had already been thinking of leaving by then.”

“Oh.”

“And it wasn’t because of you,” Keith says. “It was because of Shiro.”

The pinch of Lance’s brows tells Keith the logical leap isn’t clear. He sighs.

“Like I said, after we found Shiro again, he and I…”

“Ohhh, right,” Lance says, understanding dawning. “You two bumped uglies.”

Keith grimaces so hard it thumps a laugh from Lance’s chest. Luna’s ear flicks in annoyance at the noise. “Please, Lance,” he sighs in disgust, “never call it that ever again.”

Lance drapes an elbow on the arm of the couch with a curling smile of self-satisfaction. “Sure thing, team leader. Ain’t nothin’ about yours that’s ugly, anyhow.”

Keith sighs again but can’t help the pleased warmth that spreads in his chest. “Thanks?”

“ _De nada_ , homie. Please, go on. Why’d you leave after you and Shiro played Hide the Salami?”

Keith rolls his eyes but decides to continue. He has a rapt audience, and they’ve already shared a lot with each other. Why not rip off all the Band-Aids?

“Well, I just…” He sighs. How to say this? “It… didn’t go how I thought it would.”

“You had something specific in mind,” Lance surmises. He seems to realize what he’s said, waving a hand like he’s trying to erase it. “I-I mean, not like a specific, you know, _position_ , but—”

Keith snorts.

“—but a vibe. Well, not a _vibe_ , dammit, that’s a sex thing, too—”

Keith chuckles, rubbing at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Lance.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Lance puts his palms together in apology. “I know what you’re saying. I hear you. I’m with you. Please. Go on.”

Keith rolls his eyes, feeling his lips press together as he tries to suppress a smile. Typical Lance, stealing the gravity from the story before he’s even begun it. “I mean, that’s basically it,” he says. “I thought it would be one way…”

_tender sweet overwhelming Keith I’ve wanted this for so long you have no idea—_

“…it was another…”

_rough hard hungry you’ve wanted this for so long haven’t you—_

“And after that I just… I couldn’t go back to business as usual. I had to get away.”

Lance’s thin eyebrows are pinched together, his mouth solemn. “Was it— Did he, the clone, did he…?”

“No,” Keith says firmly. He’s been stuck on that merry-go-round before, and it’s not something he’s keen to return to. “I wanted it, I don’t regret it, I even… I mean.” He huffs a breath, drumming his fingers on the bottle. How to explain?

How to explain that the way Keith had always imagined his first time with Shiro wasn’t even really how he liked sex to be? That the all-consuming intimacy he imagined was something that made him squirm in discomfort with anyone else? That in retrospect he’s strangely relieved that that’s _not_ how it went with the clone, because it only retroactively confirms the niggling doubt he had in his brainstem that it was Not Shiro?

Because if he and Shiro ever _actually…_ it wouldn’t be like that.

“It was good,” he finally says. “ _Really_ good.”

“Yeah?” Lance’s tone is intrigued. “How so?”

Keith snorts and crosses his legs, dislodging Luna. She jumps down with a frustrated lash of her tail and stalks out of the room. “Of course you only want details.”

Lance laughs, too. “More like tips.”

“Excuse me?”

Lance spreads his hands, wide and open, shaking his head. “Well, forgive me for wanting another chance to prove myself.”

 _Ohh…_ The words curl sweetly in Keith’s gut, igniting his interest. He smirks. “Another chance, huh?”

“Yeah, didn’t you say back in the hotel that I deserved one? A chance. A win.”

“You remember that?”

Lance quirks an eyebrow. “I remember a lot about that night. Not every day your bi confirmation tells you he thinks you’re cute.”

“ _Used to_ think you were cute.”

“Hmm, you sure about that?” Lance’s grin is cheeky as he rests his temple on his knuckles, leans forward. Keith knows he’s trying to entice him, to rile him, and it’s fucking working.

“ _Anyway_. Shi— The clone…” Keith corrects himself, ignoring Lance’s probing expression. He breaks eye contact, because the glimmer in Lance’s dark eyes is raining half-drunk sparks down his spine, and—and it’s _Lance._ Something vestigial in his brain still cries at him not to give away too much. Not to Lance. 

(Even though he trusts Lance now. Even though the tease in the tilt of Lance’s mouth is something that has come to stoke fire in Keith’s veins.)

“He was strong,” he says finally, his voice low. “A little rough. He knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it. Swung me around, held me down…” _Slapped my ass, fucked my face, the same as…_

He swallows, memories overtaking him. Memories made in this very apartment. He’s suddenly well aware of the lewdness of his words, the gravel of his voice as he describes a fuck that was so achingly similar to… 

He licks his lips, his voice hoarse when he concludes: “Honestly, it was everything I ask for in a hookup.”

Lance doesn’t respond right away. At least not the way Keith was expecting. He’s quiet. Still. Studies Keith, his head still resting lightly on his hand. When Keith glances over, the firelight is mirrored in his dark eyes, crackling with heat.

It’s the fire that does it.

Before he knows it, Keith is across the couch, throwing a leg over Lance’s lap. In the next instant, his mouth is hot and moving against Lance’s, rough hands cupping cheeks, lungs sucking in loud breaths as noses bump in a harsh slide. Lance kisses him back just as hard— _too hard_ , his mind hisses at him, but he doesn’t care. He _can’t_ care because he can feel Lance’s dick filling out under his ass, because he has to revel in the dizzy groan he drags from Lance’s chest as he grinds down and rolls his hips forward.

Lance’s fingers fist in his hair, yanking him away to hold their faces mere inches apart. Breathing hard, Lance meets his eyes, his own gaze cloudy with heat, hard to look directly into so near. A mirage. The sun.

Lance’s voice is distant thunder when he says, “Sounds like he fucked you like I did.”

Keith licks his lips. Half-smirks. “Better.”

Frustration puffs in a breath across his face. “You’re such a piece of shit, Kogane.” And Lance jerks him forward again to his mouth, his grip on his hair punishing.

Heat sings in Keith’s veins at the sting on his scalp, at the give of Lance’s lower lip when he bites into it. At how thick Lance is under him and how little his sweatpants do to conceal it. He drags his nails down Lance’s chest to the waistband and dips them under, catching the elastic of his boxers in the same move.

“This is fine, right?” he asks, already sliding them off.

“Yeah, yeah, ’course,” Lance says, lifting his hips and nodding frantically. “Fuck, I’ve been wondering.”

“Me, too,” Keith admits, yanking Lance’s pants and underwear down and off.

“I’m good if you’re good.”

“I’m good.”

“Thank god.” Lance tightens his grasp on Keith’s hair again, angling his face so that he can kiss his upturned mouth, deep and filthy. “You’re so hot, Keith. Your tight little ass…”

The praise coupled with the bite of Lance’s fist in his hair has Keith half-laughing, giddy against Lance’s mouth as he climbs back into his lap, straddling his hard dick. He reaches a hand between them to wrap around it, giving it a few light pumps and letting his head spin with the feel. God, Lance’s cock is its own alcohol.

“Yeah?” he breathes, their mouths biting, sucking, smirking. “You been thinkin’ about this ass?”

Lance’s free hand slaps upside it, and Keith can feel the stinging smack through his pants. He jumps a little, relishing the pain. “Years, man,” Lance groans. “Fuckin’ _years_ thinkin’ about it.”

Keith lets out another light laugh, just quick and airy, shocked out of him by how unashamed Lance is to admit such a thing. He moves his hands to his own fly, shimmying out of his jeans as quickly as possible, Lance’s eagerness to compliment him driving him a little crazy. He kind of loves it, if he’s being honest; makes him feel sexy as hell.

Which he is. But it’s nice to have Lance acknowledge it.

“Mm, fuck,” Lance moans, as Keith returns to his lap once more. His hands fall to Keith’s hips and slide around, palming his cheeks. “This time I’m gonna fuck you better than Shiro did.”

Keith smirks down at him. “You think so, huh?”

Lance nods, his eyes already glazing over. “Know so. Know why?”

“Why,” Keith asks, humoring him. For once. Just since he said such nice things.

Lance grins hazily, chest already heaving. “Because I’m getting a second chance at it.”

Then their hands and mouths and bodies are pressed back together again, and Keith’s head is reeling with the sound and feel and smell of Lance. Lance _again,_ beneath his hands again, hard in his grasp again. And the _again_ of it all is kind of fucking him up, his brain caught on a loop of Lance’s words, reeling as Lance fumbles with the little drawer of his coffee table and procures a bottle of lube, slicking his fingers up quickly and sliding them into Keith.

 _Again_.

Keith chokes on a moan, letting his head fall forward into the crook of Lance’s neck as he begins to open him up. Because Keith doesn’t normally let _again_ happen. Ever, in fact. He’s had a lot of sex, but it was not until this moment that he’s realized it’s never been with the same person twice, not even the clone of Shiro.

And that means that Lance _knows_ things about him, will learn _more things about him_. How he likes to be spanked, to have his hair pulled, to be tossed around a little—or a lot. Add them all to the many, many things that Lance now knows about Keith outside of sex. So many things about him that no one else has ever known.

So many things that Lance could use against him, if he so chose.

It makes Keith’s stomach churn. Even as the way that Lance’s teeth graze his collarbone and send sparks down his spine makes him think Lance only wants to use those things _for_ him.

Lance has three fingers buried in him, stretching his rim, when Keith can’t take it any longer. He grips Lance’s fat cock in his hand and positions himself over it, eager to sink down.

The dig of Lance’s fingernails into his hips holds him fast. He jerks his head up, meeting Lance’s dizzy gaze. “What?” he demands, suddenly so desperate to be filled he can feel it in his teeth.

Lance looks nearly as starved as he feels, blinking blearily at him. It seems to take a concerted effort for him to blurt out, “C-condoms.”

Oh. Right.

Keith slumps his shoulders, frustration mounting. “Where are they?”

“Bedroom.”

He huffs. “You have lube in the living room but not—”

“I live alone,” Lance explains, his eyes leaving Keith’s face to rove shamelessly over his chest. He licks his lips seemingly unconsciously. “The lube’s just for me.”

The mental image of Lance jerking off on the couch is somehow both hot and annoying. A little like Lance himself. It makes him even more impatient to get Lance inside him.

Keith has never been good at overcoming his impatience.

“I’m clean,” he says bluntly, “and I don’t care if you don’t.”

Lance swallows, eyes going a little unfocused. He nods. “Me, too. It’s been a while. Other than you, I mean.”

Keith tries to ignore the lick of satisfaction that those words ignite in his gut.

He shifts again, and Lance lets up his grip, petting at Keith’s thighs and abs. “Fuck,” Lance breathes, an incredulous smile spreading. His eyes flick back to Keith’s, gleaming darkly in the low light. “Gonna fuck you raw, Keith.”

Keith hides the sound that the awe in Lance’s voice wants to drag from his throat by lining up the blunt head of his cock and sinking down onto it.

The stretch is as delicious as he remembers, heightened by the feel of every vein of Lance’s dick, the ridge of the crown catching his rim on every almost-pull-out. He moans at the sensation, and Lance makes an answering noise, tinged with a growl, his fingernails raking over Keith’s thighs, sending shivers over his skin.

 _“Fuck,”_ Lance groans again, lifting a hand and bringing it back down on Keith’s ass with a resounding _smack._ “God, I can feel you—”

Keith nods helplessly, rocking down onto Lance’s dick. “ _Nng_. You, too.”

“So hot. So tight.” He spanks him again, twice in quick succession, head falling back like he can’t control himself. It has Keith’s pulse jumping, his own untouched cock throbbing between them. _“Fuck, Keith.”_

Keith’s fingers scrabble over Lance’s shoulders, his vision swimming. Teeth clenched, he chokes out, “Sh-shit...”

Then Lance’s hands splay hard over his hips, digging in so hard and strong that Keith has to stop his movements, Lance’s hold slowing him to a halt.

“L-Lance...” he starts, confused and near frantic with the need for friction. “What are—? _Ohh, ffffuck—_ ”

The first thrust of Lance’s hips up into him feels like he’s being cracked open, his spine splitting with delirious heat. It spurs a strangled cry straight up from his stomach through his open mouth. The following thrusts, just as brutal, have him feeling nearly limp, overwhelmed and overcome with sparking, popping flames.

“This is how you like it, huh?” Lance grits out, gripping Keith’s hips and holding him there for Lance to thrust hard into. His eyes are flashing, almost vindictive, and it makes Keith’s roll into the back of his head as his body rocks with the strength of Lance’s movements.

And it’s good, _so_ good, that he whines, _“Yes.”_

“You love it hard, don’t you?” Lance’s voice is dark, dripping, the rolls of his hips driving Keith to the edge so fucking fast. “Need it hard.”

“Yes,” Keith agrees, nodding. Honestly, he’ll agree to anything to keep this rough fuck going. He wonders wildly just how much Lance will know about him by the end of the night. The thought is heady and terrifying, like looking over the edge of a cliff, the admissions punched out of him with every thrust of his cock. “Yes—yes—yes.”

“You know the real Shiro would never fuck you like this.”

Keith can only muster the wherewithal to be half-ashamed at how breathy and mindless his voice comes out: “W-what?”

“The real Shiro,” he pants, “wouldn’t fuck you hard like you want, kitten.”

Keith groans, his brain working on a lag to retort but the head of Lance’s cock is sliding over his sweet spot, turning his mind to mush. It’s a wonder his tongue isn’t lolling out of his skull.

“I bet he’d be—” he reaches for Keith’s neck, grasps the back of it, and yanks him forward so Lance’s breath fans hot across the shell of his ear “— _tender_.”

And slowly he stills the punishing movements of his hips. The hand grasping Keith’s neck gentles, slides forward to cup his face. Lance turns his nose into Keith’s temple and presses his lips to Keith’s cheek.

...What.

“Brush your hair back…” Lance whispers. Fingertips ghost over his ear, tucking hair behind it. 

_...What?_

This is not—

—not at all how—

Keith’s hands land on Lance’s shoulders, push him back against the couch to read his face.

Lance is smiling in the low light of the living room, evidently amused. “There you are, baby,” he coos.

Ugh. He’s making some sort of joke, and in the middle of Keith finally getting on that dick again. Typical Lance.

Exasperated, Keith huffs. “Lance, what the fuck.”

He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “What? I thought you wanted to fuck Shiro. Tell me this isn’t how Shiro, the _real_ Shiro, would fuck.” His expression goes sappy again as he reaches a hand for Keith’s face.

Keith catches his wrist midair. He scowls. “Stop. Do it right.”

Lance pouts. “But I’m just trying to express how I feel about you,” he says, voice pitched low like when he’s doing his Shiro impression. “Let me make love to you, Keith.”

And Keith’s shoulder twitches, ready to twist Lance’s arm around behind his back and growl at him to _shut the fuck up and just give it to him already_ , when Lance smirks and _grinds_ his hips up and sends sparks spiking through Keith’s spinal column and _yes there it is like that_—

“ _Hrng_ , fuck,” Keith gasps, his head falling back.

“Mm, that’s it,” Lance purrs, and it makes frustration tickle at the back of Keith’s mind because it’s still that low voice, the one he uses for Shiro, but Keith will let him do it if he keeps dragging his cock inside him the way he’s doing right now.

Lance leans forward, attaching his open mouth to Keith’s collarbone. An arm snakes around his lower back, a hand splaying between his shoulder blades so that Lance’s forearm braces along his spine, supporting him as he rolls with Lance’s hips, chasing that sudden charge. And it’s… 

It’s _good_ , but it’s not enough.

He whines, tries to push Lance back so he can brace himself on his chest and create the friction he wants on his own. And Lance lets himself be pushed, but he pulls Keith with him, pulls Keith _against_ him, seeks out his jaw with his mouth and continues that slow, light, _infuriating_ fuck.

Keith groans in frustration.

“What is it, baby?” Low but teasing against his throat. “Talk to me.”

_“Rrgh.”_

“Use your words, darling.”

“ _Lance—!”_

“I’m not Lance, I’m Shiro.” He pulls back from Keith’s shoulder, and his grin is wicked, his eyebrows aloof.

“I’m not going to, _argh—_ I’m not going to call you Shiro, you dick.”

“Why not? You already did once,” and Lance’s fingers twitch, digging into the meat of his ass. The lick of pain is delicious, ratchets up the frustrated electricity coursing through Keith’s blood, because _that’s_ what he wants, _that’s_ what he likes, and Lance knows it, he’s just—

“Ah, fuck,” Keith gasps. “Is— is that what this is about?” He glares at Lance through heavy-lidded eyes. “You making some sort of point?”

“Just trying to give you what you want, baby,” Lance answers innocently, his voice still low, still _Shiro,_ before a bit of Lance creeps in: “Let you try something romantic on for size. I'm versatile.” His grip loosens slightly to run lovingly up Keith’s arms, his thumb brushing his cheek. The expression on his face is stupid, like he’s out of some constipated het sex scene, but his eyes are dancing with amusement.

“This isn’t how I want it,” Keith growls, rolling his eyes, “and you know it.”

Lance’s grin only widens.

Keith wants to smear it off his face.

So he takes advantage of Lance’s lightened grasp on him. In one swift motion, he drops his ass down hard and takes Lance’s thick cock to the root, quick and rough, like he craves it. It drives a moan out of him, and he makes it _obscene_ , hopes it gets Lance’s blood boiling, snaps him out of whatever prank he’s trying to pull right now, whatever cryptic point he’s trying to make.

But Lance’s grip only slackens, his movements stilling. Keith clenches his eyes shut, has to fight down an urge to curse Lance the fuck out.

“Sorry, baby, I lost myself for a second there,” Lance croons, petting a hand over Keith’s side. “Did I hurt you?”

Keith wants to scream. He wants to tear his hair out. “Lance— _”_

“Shiro, baby.” Lance’s eyes are laughing.

 _“Lance!”_ he growls, and both hands rip Lance’s from him and pin them by the wrists on either side of his head. He pants into Lance’s bemused face, feeling half-mad with the sensation of being stretched, both his patience and his wet, hungry flesh, and both by Lance. “Fuck me like you did before,” he grits out, “or do I have to hold you down and take what I want myself?”

Dark heat flashes through Lance’s eyes. A muscle jumps in his jaw, his gaze dragging hungrily over Keith’s face.

 _Oh, he likes that idea,_ Keith thinks with amusement. Maybe he wasn't kidding when he said he was versatile.

He goes slack beneath Keith’s grip, settling back against the couch. He gives him a slow, heated smirk.

“Go on, then,” he purrs, and it’s not low-fake-Shiro anymore; it’s Lance. It’s Lance, dark gaze flicking down to where he’s buried hilt-deep in Keith’s body. “Show me how you want it.”

Keith narrows his eyes. They flick back and forth between Lance’s, studying, searching. His gut is telling him this is a game, too. The rules are opaque, and the goal is a complete mystery, but it’s a game all the same. And with the way Lance’s blown pupils are meeting his, devouring like a wildfire, Keith can tell it’s a game he’s going to win.

He doesn’t release Lance—his wrists or his gaze—as he starts to move. Lance is going to lose, and Keith wants to watch it happen.

He lifts up, arches his back until his rim is clinging only to the head of Lance’s cock, and holds there—because _two can play at this game, McClain_. A muscle by Lance’s left eye is twitching, making his mark jump and shimmer in the light. His reddened lips part slightly, just so Keith can see a flash of white between them, breath catching. 

Keith raises an eyebrow. Lance swallows audibly.

And Keith rounds his back and slides down rough and strong and forceful, swallowing Lance in again to the hilt. Lance’s eyes roll and flutter, air sucking in through his clenched teeth, and _god_ , that's amazing, the way his expression broke instantly at Keith taking him.

“Keep your eyes open, Lance,” Keith laughs breathlessly, building speed. “’Mtryin’ to show you how I want it.”

“Fuck,” Lance chokes. His eyelids lift and clench shut again almost instantly as Keith rocks his hips.

Keith leans forward, rests his forehead against Lance’s, sweaty and crinkled with concentration. “Stay with me, _baby_ ,” he coos, making sure Lance hears the way he twists the word in his teeth.

He knows he’s succeeded when Lance tries to bull his way forward, tries to throw Keith’s grip off his wrists to get the upper hand again. And Lance is farm-strong now, but he has no leverage; he falls back with a whine that turns into a full-throated moan as Keith grinds down on him.

Keith laughs. “What is it, _baby_? Can dish it out but can’t take it?”

“God, fuck, _Keith_ ,” Lance groans, his mouth gasping. “Yer so— s’hot—”

“Just what the fuck kinda point were you trying to prove, there, huh, _baby_?” Keith snarls in his face. He nips at Lance’s chin when he doesn’t answer.

Hissing at the bite, Lance struggles weakly again against Keith’s grip, though the crooked smile on his facing conveys to Keith just how much he doesn't want to be let go. “M’sorry,” he says, half-laughing, “I was just— fuck, I dunno what I was—”

“Liar,” Keith murmurs, leaning away as much as possible so he can leer at Lance down his nose, his hips circling in his lap. “You had something in mind, didn’t you? Trying to make fun of me, as usual?”

“N-no.” Lance gives his head a little shake. Then his mouth tilts up faintly. “Well, maybe a little. _Hnghh—_ ” He gasps when Keith digs his nails into his wrists and kicks his hips forward, Keith’s cock smearing precome over his stomach. “Just… didn’t know…” Lance pants, “if that’s what, _hngh_ , you wanted… To pretend, like last time.”

And…

...Lance thought he was pretending he was Shiro the whole time? 

Keith tries not to let his astonishment show. It wouldn’t do, with the way he’s currently melting Lance beneath him. But his movements must slow, must clue Lance into the surprise thundering through him, because Lance lifts his reddened, sweaty face to meet Keith’s.

“Figured we should be up front about it,” he breathes, pausing to swallow hard as his dark eyes search Keith’s, “if that’s all this is.”

His tone is not questioning, but he’s asking nonetheless, Keith thinks. The churn in his gut tells him he owes an answer.

“I don’t want to pretend you’re Shiro, Lance,” he tells him, gravel rumbling in his voice. “That was— Last time, that was an accident. I was—” _Messed up. Heartbroken._ He changes tack: “This— _this…_ ” He allows his eyes to flick down to where they’re joined and back to Lance’s, still dark and searching. “...is on purpose. I... want you.” Heat flares within him at his words, at the truth to them. He hopes his halting, disjointed mumbles can convey his sincerity.

Lance is quiet, his expression unreadable. Keith’s grasp on his wrists begins to slacken, unsure if they should continue. 

Then Lance _growls._ In one smooth motion, he throws off Keith’s grip. Hands fly to Keith’s ass, fingers dig in, and with a quick rock back against the couch, Lance is surging forward, forward and— up. Up, up, up, taking Keith with him. Head spinning, Keith reacts on pure instinct, wrapping his legs around Lance’s hips, his arms around his shoulders. The next second his back slams against the wall.

“What the fuck,” he gasps, reeling.

Lance buries his face in Keith’s neck and kicks his hips up into him, chuckling breathlessly as Keith moans. “Gotcha.”

“You— fucking—” Keith pants, words fucked out of him. All he can do is sink his nails into Lance’s shoulders, pleased when he hisses at the pain.

Lance huffs a laugh, humid and punched out in time with his thrusts. “What can— I say? I want— you, too,” and his mouth lands open and wet and hot on Keith’s.

Fire burns down Keith’s throat, sparked by the flint and tinder of their tongues. The wall behind him is hard, unforgiving, and forces him to focus on the slick, delirious drag of Lance’s cock, on the wet slide of skin over his own, trapped and leaking between their stomachs. 

And it’s good, _so_ good, when they’re solid, though the sweat and lube and precome coating their thighs has Keith slowly slipping down. With a grunt, Lance boosts him higher and strokes over that electric bundle of nerves inside him for one delicious moment. Keith wrenches his head to the side to let out a moan, sweaty temple pressed to the cool plaster of the wall, because fuck— _fuckfuckfuck_ —

This is the best he’s ever had.

The thought strikes him like lightning, the truth of it scorching. Because this— this is like— it’s like _them_. The stop-start, harsh-soft-harsh confusion of the beginnings; the missteps; the eventual revelation of honesty; and now… _this_. Falling together, into each other, after all that, to find with dizzying delight that it could be _this good_ because for some reason they just couldn’t leave each other the fuck alone.

 _“God,”_ Lance chokes, sweat-slick fingers digging into Keith’s ass, spreading him wide. “You’re so fucking hot, god, _fuck_ —”

“ _Hnngh,_ wan—” Keith’s mind reels. He’s dying to get a hand on his cock, still untouched but for the press of their stomachs against it. He tries again: _“_ Wanna— _”_

Lance boosts him again, pins him harder against the wall, fucks up into him, and Keith goes dizzy with the almost-vertigo, the electricity Lance is sparking with every few thrusts.

He licks his lips, digs fingernails into Lance’s shoulder. “Wanna—”

“Hm?” Lance slows, circling his hips, grinding. A hand inches up between the wall and Keith’s back, holding him close. Huskily, he murmurs: “Wha’d’you want, kitten?”

And Keith didn’t know that having Lance call him _kitten_ instead of _baby_ would ever make syrupy heat pool in his gut, but—

“Wanna touch,” he pants, knowing that’s as clear as he can get right now.

Lance breathes heavy against his collarbone, presses his lips there, and Keith knows that wasn’t clear _enough_.

So he bends an arm back, his hand splaying against the wall over his shoulder. He uses the leverage to push his ass into the cradle of Lance’s hips, forcing him to stand straight, to take a step back, while Keith’s shoulders remain leaned against the wall, the line of his chest angled down to where Lance is still gripping his thighs.

Then Keith shifts his other hand to grip around his cock, flushed and dripping against his abdomen.

Lance is agape watching him, his brows pinched tight, gorgeous and gutted at the sight of Keith shining and stroking his own cock. When his gaze crawls back up Keith’s torso to meet Keith’s, he looks dazed.

One eye shut against the stinging sweat, Keith smirks. He flicks his wrist and lets himself moan.

 _“Fuuuck,”_ Lance groans, and slowly begins again to move. 

The first few thrusts are tentative, testing the solidity of the new position, but with Lance gripping Keith’s hips and Keith pressing back hard against the wall they quickly gain confidence, and then speed, and then they’re melting into panting lungs gasping mouths twitching muscles and Keith is eyes clenched unspooling on Lance’s dick.

Because the other thing about this position: the angle.

Lance is kicking his hips in and up and it’s the _up_ that’s doing it, that’s really fucking doing it for Keith, because it has the head of Lance’s cock dragging over his prostate at the same time as Keith’s palm slides hard at the underside of his slick length. The sparks that both sensations are shooting up are colliding into fireworks in his core, booming in his bones.

“Oh fuck,” he bites out, as the feeling starts to crest. “Oh _fuck_ , I’m—”

“God, _yeah_ ,” Lance gasps eagerly. Picks up speed, chasing Keith’s orgasm with him.

“Fuck, I’m so— _nnh—_ ”

“That’s it, oh my _god_ , you’re amazing, _fuck—_ ”

Keith _whines_ , body taut and straining, fist strangling his cock, and one eye cracks as he gasps and catches sight of Lance, muscles shifting, jaw dripping sweat, eyes ravenous and eating him up and somehow still _smiling_ , and Keith arches and cries out gutturally as he shoots strips of white over his own chest and belly.

Lance is still moving jerkily when Keith recovers. His arms now encircle Keith’s lower back, and Keith slithers limp arms around Lance’s neck and slumps forward, letting Lance take all of his weight with a weak whimper that he should be ashamed of.

But then again, he’s said much worse to Lance in bed.

“Fuck,” Lance whispers into his neck. “Fuck.”

“Mm-hmm,” Keith agrees warmly, the slow, shallow movements of Lance’s still-hard cock sending tingles up his spine.

“I’m gonna die.”

…?

...That doesn’t compute, Keith’s pretty sure.

“...Nn?” 

“I need to come so bad I’m gonna die but my legs are cramping like hell, dude,” Lance confesses.

“Oh.” That makes sense, Keith decides distantly. So then… “Want me to ride you?”

Lance makes a noise that sounds like gratitude and incredulity and weary enthusiasm. He stumbles forward to balance himself with a hand on the wall as he sinks right there to the floor.

“Hm, not quite where I was expecting,” Keith observes wryly.

Lance falls supine beneath him, flexing his legs and flopping his arms out at his sides. “Woulda dropped you if I tried to go any farther,” he breathes.

“Or you could’ve just stopped carrying me.”

Lance shakes his head. “Not an option. You’re too hot.”

Keith smirks at that. Lazily, he crawls forward to settle over Lance’s dick, which slipped out during the readjustment. He reaches back to feel himself. “You got me so wet and loose,” he murmurs, molasses-slow thoughts pouring straight from mind to mouth.

Lance curses, lifting a hand to pet at Keith’s thigh. “Hello, post-orgasm Keith,” he says breathlessly, “I don’t believe we’ve really met bef— _fu-huh-huuuck_.”

Keith sinks onto him and begins his curling, rocking, sliding, his hole hugging Lance’s cock like it’s already been too long. Beneath him, Lance is moaning, shining with sweat and Keith’s come, slicked across his chest where they were pressed together. He looks like a fucking dream.

On a whim, Keith purrs, “You look so good like this.”

Lance _keens_ , his head falling to the side, eyes clenched shut in pleasure-pain.

Keith huffs a laugh, amused in his come-slow brain.

“I wanna fuck you, too, you know,” he tells Lance almost conversationally. The idea occurs to him like a building fire, the possibilities of the _again_ of it all. (Because why not again? And again and again.) He grinds down and circles his hips, dragging out a moan that snags on every one of Lance’s ribs. “Would love to open you up, watch your face as you take me in. Has anyone done that to you before, Lance?”

Keith grasps his jaw between fingers and thumb but doesn’t stop the undulations of his hips. Lance whines, incoherent. He can feel how Lance is growing even harder inside him, like iron, an exquisitely unforgiving stretch.

“Does that turn you on?” he asks, pleased, and Lance nods, his jaw still caught in Keith’s grip. Keith releases him with a low chuckle and plants his hands on his pecs, slick with sweat, as he resumes his sinuous movements above him. “Yeah? I’ll do it, Lance. I’ll fuck you. I’ll split you open, make you come on my cock, make you _scream_ —”

And with a choked shout, Lance convulses beneath him, curling up and shuddering as Keith rides him languidly through it, smiling as he watches.

In the flickering firelight, on the floor, flushed with sweat, Lance is, honestly, stunning.

Slowly, he settles beneath Keith, going nearly limp. When he opens his eyes, they remain at half-mast, regarding Keith with reverent stupor. He lifts a loose arm and allows the back of his hand to droop over his forehead, spent.

 _“Woof,”_ he exhales.

Keith raises an eyebrow. “That’s the first thing you say,” he deadpans. “‘Woof’.”

“Woof!” Lance repeats with emphasis, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Now it’s the second thing I said, too.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith starts to shift his weight off Lance before a hand on his thigh stops him. When he looks up, Lance is shaking his head wearily.

“Please,” he begs. “Give me a minute.”

“And what am I supposed to do while you take a minute?”

All Lance does is hold out his arms wide. A clear invitation. One that has Keith’s stomach flipping with apprehension.

“Cuddling after sex?” he says skeptically, unmoving. “Isn’t that kind of cliche?”

Lance’s arms stay where they are, outstretched. “Some things are popular for a reason, you emo fuck.”

That draws a snicker from Keith in spite of himself. He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head, looking down at Lance with bemusement.

Lance pouts, his arms dropping with twin thuds to the floor. “Classic Keith,” he whines. “Could you please be a little less classic right now?”

Keith sighs. Strictly speaking, this is not something he does, either. Normally by this point he’s rolled off the bed (or couch, or pilot’s chair), dragged his underwear back on, and called a perfunctory _thanks_ over his shoulder on his way out the door. But...

But Lance _did_ just dick him down so hard he basically broke his own legs.

...Maybe just this once...

Keeping his eyes trained steadfastly on the opposite wall, he allows himself to slump forward awkwardly against Lance’s damp chest.

Lance freezes. “O-oh my god…”

“Don’t make a thing out of it.”

“O-okay, but I didn’t think—”

“What did I just say?”

Hesitantly, Lance wraps his arms around him, enveloping Keith in warmth. It’s actually kind of nice as the sweat cools on their skin. He can hear the smile in his voice. “You got it, kitten.”

Still rigid, Keith grimaces against Lance’s shoulder. “And by the way, why is ‘kitten’ your go-to nickname for people you’re fucking? It’s weird.”

(Weird how he almost liked it for a second there, when Lance used it instead of _baby_. But Lance doesn’t need to know that.)

He can feel how Lance tilts his head, asking for eye contact. He refuses to give it to him; post-coital cuddling _with eye contact_ is a bridge too far. 

“It is not my go-to,” Lance tells him, evidently surprised. “I don’t _have_ a go-to. Honestly, I was pretty much just free-stylin’ that first time and it came out.”

Huh. That makes it… marginally less weird, he supposes.

“I kinda like it, though. Since you’re like a cat.”

Keith bristles. “I am not like a cat.”

“All right, Mr. No-Cuddling-After-Sex.”

“Nnnghh....”

Lance laughs, his body shaking beneath Keith’s. He pats him on the back, rubbing his hands suddenly vigorously over his shoulder blades. “Okay, champ, you can get up. I won’t torture you any longer. And just FYI, lying on top of me like a corpse is not cuddling.”

“Nngh,” Keith grunts again. Now that he’s here, it’s kind of comfortable, actually. He doesn’t really want to move. But Lance is shimmying beneath him, trying to extricate himself, so he lifts off and rolls onto his knees, his head still a little sex-fuzzy.

In spite of the cloudy, cottony feeling in his brain, he still manages to get up before Lance, who seems to truly distrust his legs not to wobble like string cheese once he gets them under him. Taking pity, Keith holds out a hand, hoisting him easily.

“Whoa—!” Lance yelps, catching himself on Keith’s shoulder. He blinks, his vision clearly swimming, and lets out a giggle as his head droops forward. “Okay, dude, next time we have stupidly acrobatic standing-up sex, _you’re_ topping.”

 _“Next time”?_ The words are on the tip of his tongue. He swallows them down when Lance nuzzles lazily at his jaw, his breath sending tingles down his spine.

“You’re very touchy-feely afterwards,” Keith observes stiffly. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, so he lets them hang limply by his sides.

Lance hums. “And you’re even pricklier,” he teases, “after you get some A-plus dirty talk out of your system. Holy shit, that made me come so fucking fast, dude. You should work a phone sex hotline or something.”

Keith fails to smother the self-satisfied smile that lifts one corner of his mouth. “Oh yes, oh baby,” he deadpans.

Lance snickers before licking a thick, wet stripe against his throat that has Keith jerking his head away. “Just as I thought,” Lance says, smacking his lips. “Salt!”

After Lance snuffs out the fire, they get cleaned up in the bathroom, hopping in the shower for a perfunctory lather and rinse. As Keith is toweling off his ass and thighs, Lance pauses midway through brushing his teeth, knocking his palm lightly on the countertop in frustration. “Fuck, we have to set up the air mattress.”

Keith lets out a similarly displeased noise.

“Such a pain in the ass,” Lance huffs, spitting into the sink and then gargling some water.

“I can do it myself if you want to go to sleep.”

“No, no, I don’t trust you after you slashed the last one.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “It was the cat, Lance.”

Grinning, Lance leans in close to him and whispers, “I know it was, _kitten_.”

Keith puts his whole hand over Lance’s face and shoves it. Laughing, Lance lets himself be pushed.

“Aw, fuck it,” Lance says, with a dismissive wave, “I can’t be bothered. Just sleep in the bed.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. They haven’t slept in a bed together since before Lance moved. Since before Keith spilled his guts to Lance, first inadvertently and then repeatedly and on purpose. He gets that same feeling again, from when Lance was cooking for him in the kitchen, like he’s standing at the edge of the ocean, the waves licking at his calves, beckoning him in.

“Okay,” he agrees with a shrug.

He’s sure he can withstand the tide.

He follows Lance into his bedroom wordlessly. He’s seen it since that night, but only glimpses, really, while waiting for Lance to choose an outfit or hunt for his phone. Now he looks around, observing how Lance has decorated it in delicate blues and greens. His queen-sized bed is appointed with copious pillows, artfully arranged; a dresser and vanity take up two of the other walls, the vanity mirror adorned with pictures from the old corkboard at the farmhouse. The picture of Lance and Allura, formerly on Lance’s bedside table, now rests atop the lacquered surface of the vanity.

Lance goes immediately to the bed’s far side, the one with the table, to click on the low light of the lamp. He jerks his head like he wants to say something to Keith and then thinks better of it, setting about pulling the pillows off the bed to make room for the both of them. Keith helps.

When only the sleeping pillows remain, Keith hesitates. In his peripheral vision, Lance, too, seems to pause, the silence pregnant. 

Keith reaches for the covers and then stops. All that’s left is to climb into the bed, but… should he just…?

“Do you want the left side?”

Keith blinks. Lance is looking at him, one eye screwed up nervously.

“B-because when it was just my twin,” he goes on, “I think you usually slept on the left. The wall side? But here I tend to sleep on the left, because of the nightstand…”

“It’s fine,” Keith cuts in, his voice sharp with unfocused discomfort. Pushing through, he rips the covers back and slides under them. “It’s fine. The right side is fine.”

“Okay, cool,” Lance says, and in a few short seconds, he’s nestled happily under the covers, as well.

The sheets are smooth against Keith’s bare legs, certainly somewhat of a splurge for Lance. Perhaps a housewarming gift to himself. Keith tugs them up to his chin and rolls onto his side, facing the wall. He tries to ignore how strange the distance between them is. How it would be even stranger to cross it.

“Hey, could you pass me that extra pillow?”

Dutifully, Keith reaches for the sleeping pillow he let fall to the floor and hands it over his shoulder to Lance. What follows is such a flurry of movement behind his back that Keith finally gives up on his nonchalance and has to grumble, “What the hell are you doing.”

“I’m setting up my pillow fortress.”

Keith lets that lie there for a bit. 

“Excuse me?”

Lance huffs, still shifting behind him. “Well, it’s really only three-quarters of my pillow fortress.”

“What is a pillow fortress, is my main question…”

“It’s my sleeping setup! I put one pillow under my head, one between my knees to keep my hips aligned, one to spoon, and another to spoon me.”

Keith tries to imagine it. “You need _four_ pillows?” 

“Hey, whaddaya know. Looks like the math’s not just for Pidge.”

Keith scowls at the wall. The laugh that follows tells him Lance knows exactly the expression he’s making.

“Yes, Keith,” Lance sighs, as though Keith is being purposefully difficult, “in my perpetual singledom, I have come to require four pillows to sleep. To surround myself with pillows! Hence, my pillow fortress.” He lets out yet another theatrical sigh. “How I will manage with only three of the four, we shall see…”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I hope you realize how ridiculous you sound right now.”

“Oh?” Lance’s tone is amusement coated in innocence. “How’s that?”

“You’re complaining about having ‘only’ three pillows. I have _one_.”

“Do you normally sleep with more than one pillow?”

“No.”

“Then you’re fine! I’m not asking you to sleep with three-fourths of one pillow, which is basically what you’re doing to me—”

“I’m not giving you my _one pillow_ , Lance, then I will have _no pillows._ ”

“Well, that’s very selfish of you.”

Keith’s only answer is a loud groan. In response, he gets a flutter of delighted snickers as Lance reaches for the lamp.

“Gonna turn out the light now.”

Keith grunts in confirmation, and the room is cast in darkness.

They lie there, still in the purple-black of the room. Keith tries not to feel the distance, not to feel that want-don’t-want push and pull of the tide against his ankles. Tries not to acknowledge how he’s grown so used to Lance’s proximity that the comfort of it is what’s most uncomfortable to him.

Tries not to wonder if it’s the same for Lance.

Instead, he settles deeper into the bed. Focuses on the smoothness of the sheets, the cushion of the pillow beneath his head and the plushness of the mattress. It comes as little surprise to him to realize that Lance’s bed might be the most comfortable one he’s ever slept in. Opulent, almost. It lulls him.

“To answer your question, yes.”

It takes Keith a moment to wrench himself from the soft cradle of sleep. His brain works slowly, trying to process what Lance is referring to. All efforts fail; he’s too tired and well-fucked. “Huh?”

Lance chuckles in the dark. When Keith cranes his neck, he can see that behind him, Lance is staring up at the ceiling. The moonlight through the blinds casts shadows on his smooth face. “You asked if anyone had ever fucked me before. So, I’m answering your question.” He lifts an eyebrow in Keith’s direction. “Yes.”

That image is enough for Keith to roll over, suddenly much more alert. _“Really.”_

One side of Lance’s mouth pulls up in the dark. “Surprised?”

Keith thinks. “Not that much, I guess. I just figured most of your experience was with girls.”

“Yeah,” Lance says. He leans his face in closer, mouth to Keith’s ear. “Including one _shapeshifting_ girl.”

Images spin behind Keith’s eyes. He’s never been particularly concerned about what Lance and Allura got up to in their private quarters (aside from the one time he walked past Lance’s room in the Garrison, heard Allura having what must have been a grand old time, and had the bemused thought, _Huh, good for Lance_ ), but right now he finds his brain caught on the very appealing idea of a dick in Lance’s ass, regardless of the gender of said dick’s owner.

“Y-you mean— you and Allura—?”

Teasingly, Lance hums. “I don’t kiss and tell, Keith,” he says, lilting. He rolls onto his side, curled up facing Keith, like he’s telling secrets. Goosebumps prickle on Keith’s neck when Lance’s breath ghosts over his skin. “But actually I do, and yeah. We for _sure_ did that. And it was pretty fucking awesome.”

Keith’s pulse jumps in his throat. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You liked that?”

(Fuck, his voice should not sound quite so hoarse, _quite_ so enticed. They _just_ had stupidly acrobatic, standing-up sex. He wants to _sleep_.)

(Even though Lance did say his dirty talk was hot.)

(No. Sleep.)

Lance is nodding, seemingly unaware of Keith’s inner turmoil. “Mm-hmm, a _lo-o-ot_ ,” he says, his voice distorted by the yawn he attempts to stifle. “Deeefinitely on the table, ’slong as I don’t get distracted by how cute your tight little butthole is.”

The laugh bubbles up through Keith’s throat before he can stop it. “My butt _hole_?” he echoes, his head falling to the side so they’re face-to-face, side-by-side.

“Mm.” Lance is clearly fading fast, eyes closed. It’s just like at Pidge’s; he’s falling asleep mid-conversation. “Yeah, why.”

“Normally you go on and on about my butt,” Keith says, “not the hole specifically.”

“Like ’em both,” Lance sighs with a sleepy shrug. His minty breath fans over Keith’s face, warm. “Yer the whooole pack’ge, buddy.”

Keith watches as Lance’s body relaxes, his head becoming heavy on the pillow, his fingers twitching where they lie loose beside his chin. Closing his own eyes, Keith feels like the soft sheets and Lance’s body heat have warmed him through to his bones, his veins, his perpetually clenched gut, which untangles lazily, comfortably, as he drifts to sleep.

At some point in the night, he wakes up to the eye-rolling realization that Lance’s final comment was a pun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmm... the boys begin to Feel.
> 
> thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs) for the beta read!
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter.


	7. Freeze-Dried Romance

Keith is not a prude. He’s been in love with the same man since he was fourteen, but he was never “saving himself.” He’s had his fair share of hookups, all of which had two common themes: all were various shades of casual and all were various shades of _holy shit I’m hooking up with Keith Kogane holy shit holy shit_.

This thing with Lance is casual. It’s casual in that they don’t think twice about sleeping in the same bed, about Keith slinging an arm around Lance’s stomach as he nestles close. About the fact that they have inside jokes, that their eyes can meet across a room and they both just _know_ what the other is thinking. About the fact that Keith has his own section of Lance’s closet. That he has his own slippers. That they match Lance’s pair.

(About the fact that when Keith spills coffee all over his and they stain the color of blood clots, Lance washes them, and the fleece still comes out all clumpy and muddy and weird looking. And when Lance puts them on the floor in front of Keith and says, “Good as new,” with a hopeful smile, Keith laughs so hard that he cries.)

(About the fact that the next time Keith stays over, there’s a brand-new pair waiting for him.)

***

“Nngh, fuck,” Keith gasps, blood thumping in his head as Lance thrusts languidly into him. The fingertips of one callused hand ghost over Keith’s taut nipple while the other gently grips his throat, heightening the drag of Lance’s cock inside him.

Behind him, Lance noses at his ear, brushes his hair from his neck to whisper filthy things into his skin that Keith can barely make out over the pounding of his heart in his skull.

He got in late last night. So late that Lance seemed only half-conscious when he answered the door, his sleep mask pushed up into his hair. Fortunately, as Keith crawled into bed beside a sleepy, muttering Lance and dislodged an irritable Luna in the process, he realized that the next day was not a farm day and therefore they could both sleep in.

Or not.

Instead, Lance woke him with an open mouth on the juncture of his shoulder and the warm, insistent press of his morning wood against the swell of Keith’s ass. It didn’t take long for that to progress to where they are now: Keith held fast in Lance’s arms, rocking on the verge of the laziest, most indulgent orgasm he thinks he’s ever experienced.

Lance’s mouth is wet heat against his skin, his hand a steady, grounding presence around his throat as the strong, molten movements of his hips drive Keith inexorably forward. He is already shuddering by the time Lance trails a hand down to wrap around his dick, rock-hard and leaking into the sheets, punctuating the climax he unfurls from Keith by sinking his teeth into the sleepy muscle at the base of his neck. Keith melts into bonelessness, held together only by Lance’s hands and mouth and cock.

When Keith comes down, and Lance has finished, too, Lance relaxes his grip and but doesn’t pull away; he stays wrapped around Keith, a warm hand tracing the curve of his jaw.

“Hard to believe we could have been doing this all along, isn’t it?” Lance chuckles.

Keith can’t be bothered to open his eyes. He could fall back to sleep, honestly. “Mm.”

“You still think you wouldn’t have hooked up with me back then if I knew I was bi?”

“Mm.”

“Damn, Keith, you’re a real motormouth this morning.”

Keith tilts his head to glare half-heartedly. Lance is grinning lazily back at him, his eyes bright from orgasm but still heavy-lidded. He tugs on a lock of Keith’s hair, which only makes Keith want to revert to his wordless hums.

He turns away again, resting his cheek on the pillow. “Had you even had sex when we were on the castleship?”

Lance continues twirling that lock of hair. Pleasant tingles. “You mean, was I a virgin?” 

“Mm.”

“Technically no. Spiritually yes.”

Keith snorts. “I don’t know what that means but it sounds right.”

“Hey!” 

The tug is a little sharper, but it’s hardly punishment. Lance always feels playful and talkative after he comes, Keith has learned. He likes to keep his hands on Keith while he muses, and Keith’s brain is usually flying high enough that he doesn’t mind. It tends to work well, actually; some of their best conversations occur while Lance is chatty and Keith’s verbal filter is all but obliterated post-orgasm. 

“What about you, hotshot? Were you a virgin?”

“Not in any sense.”

“I figured.”

Keith smirks. “I would have blown your mind, McClain.” 

(What’d he say about that filter?)

“I have no doubt of that,” Lance replies easily. He curls around Keith even tighter, and Keith realizes he’s still inside him, slowly softening. “Just think about it. You could have taught me everything I know. Molded me into your perfect fuck buddy.”

Lance says it like he’s making a business pitch. Funny. “You’re saying I could have gotten in at the ground floor.”

“Exactly! Buy low, sell— well, don’t sell, actually, I am a human being.”

Keith chuckles. Lance’s breath tickles at his ear.

“But I wouldn’t have to unlearn all my bad habits, if you’d just fucked me back then,” Lance goes on. “I would know nothing else. Just _your_ body, how to make _you_ feel good.” He noses at Keith’s neck, the spot where he bit down and stole all the muscles from his limbs. “It wouldn’t have taken me so long to find this little kill switch, for instance.”

“Lance…” Keith tries to make it a warning but it comes out a moan. He can feel Lance smiling into his skin.

It’s funny. They haven’t talked about this for a long time. The _what if_ s. Not since Shiro’s wedding, really. It’s not something Keith ever used to like to entertain; he was so obsessed with Shiro that there was no room for anyone else, certainly not Lance. But he finds he doesn’t mind indulging in them now, probably because they’ve grown so much closer over the past months. In some ways, it _is_ hard to believe they _weren’t_ doing this the whole time. This casual fuck-buddy thing.

“It sounds like you really wanted me to fuck you.”

“Oh, I didn’t know what I wanted.” Keith feels Lance’s shrug, followed closely by his dick finally slipping out of him. “Honestly if anything _had_ happened between us, I probably would have freaked out even worse than I did after that bonding moment. But if I could go back in time and hit up Past Lance, I’m talkin’ _Blue_ Paladin Lance, I would be like…” He puts on a stern voice. “‘Listen up, cadet. You know how you think you want to _be_ _Keith_?’ and Past Me would be like, ‘...No?’”

Lance is so good at these voices that he even makes his crack like it always used to. Keith laughs into the pillow.

“And I’d be like, ‘Well, here’s the thing: you don’t want to _be_ Keith. You want to be _balls-deep in Keith_.’”

Keith snorts. Lance goes on, undeterred.

“‘And I know the vastness of space scares you, and I know that sometimes you feel like throwing yourself out an airlock would be better than the torture of not knowing when the next attack is gonna come, but I promise you that if you go to Keith and beg him on your _knees_ to let you touch his dick, a whooole buncha stuff’s gonna become a _lot_ clearer.’”

“Begging on your knees, huh? Sounds like something Future Lance should try some time.”

“Hmm, Future Lance could be persuaded.” He presses his mouth to that spot, the “kill switch” spot, and Keith hums, tingles spreading across his skin. “And what would have been the result if Past Lance had done it?”

“I would have fucked your mouth.”

The laugh that bursts from Lance is like a shotgun blast straight from the chest, followed by a buckshot spray of giggles as he curls his face into Keith’s spine, half-muffled.

“Lance, what the fuck, that was right in my ear…”

“Sorry, sorry,” he giggles, still buried between Keith’s shoulder blades. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be that blunt.”

“Please. Back then, I would have taken any chance to shut you up.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Fingers clench on his sides, choking an involuntary laugh from Keith’s squirming chest. Just for one moment, and then the fingers are gone. (Lance has learned that extended tickling means war in Keith’s book.) “I’m just shocked you’re admitting you would’ve sucked someone’s dick other than Shiro’s.”

“I could say the same with you and Allura,” Keith shoots back, Lance’s comment about _shapeshifting girls_ bouncing around in his skull. He wishes he weren’t so physically sated right now; yet another missed opportunity to see how Lance looks when he’s coming apart on a dick.

To his surprise, though, all the tease seems to go out of Lance. He sighs, “Yeah…” and rolls onto his back, leaving Keith’s skin suddenly cool to the air.

So Keith rolls with him. Quietly, he studies Lance’s troubled face. “What’s up?”

“Sorry.” It sounds reflexive, absentminded. “I just— Never mind. It’s really selfish, actually, so…”

“So?” Keith asks with a shrug. “I don’t give a shit.”

Laughing, Lance uses the arm that’s still under Keith’s neck to pat him awkwardly on the head. “One of your better qualities, my dude.”

“Thanks,” Keith replies flatly.

“No, yeah, I just… It’s hard saying this shit to someone who’s not paid to listen to it, but…” Lance exhales. “…sometimes I wish that that’s how it _had_ been, you know?”

Keith frowns. “How _what_ had been?”

“Liiike…” Lance’s eyes are on the ceiling. “You and me. Instead of… me and Allura.”

Keith’s vision tunnels. He’s caught in a riptide, the shore a terrifying sliver on the horizon, growing ever more distant. 

This is what he was afraid of… right? This becoming… more.

Or— Lance _wanting_ more. Because this could never become more. Keith could never… with anyone beside Shiro… it’s— it’s impossible…

And Lance has told him before that that’s not what he wants, and he believes him, so… so he shouldn’t be scared. Right?

“Why?” he finally asks. Quiet. Cautious. 

Lance huffs bitterly, self-deprecatingly. He drags a hand down his face, covering his response: “Because at least you lived.”

The terror dissipates, but his stomach still plummets. Lance’s voice is cheerless, despairing. It meets the ringing ache in Keith’s own chest, vibrating at a perfect resonance. He feels as though he’s known for a long time what they’re doing here, but this is the first he’s put words to the feeling. 

Grieving.

Bonding.

And maybe… healing. Not for Keith, but for Lance. Or so Keith had perhaps naively hoped.

“Isn’t that fucked up?” Lance is peering through his fingers. “You’re not saying anything, so it must be fucked up…”

“No,” Keith says quickly, startled. “I just don’t— I’m bad at—”

“Don’t worry, man, it’s fine.” Lance finally pulls his hand away from his face, smiling without it reaching his eyes.

“No, but I—” Keith has to stop himself; the words are spilling out before he knows where they’re going. “I’m, um… Thanks for telling me.”

He licks his lips, mulling over what Lance said. It feels strange to imagine, even though they were doing so jokingly only moments before. If instead of Keith-and-Shiro, or Lance-and-Allura, it had been Keith-and-Lance…

His heart thuds unevenly, almost painfully. The combination sits unfamiliar on his tongue. But when he thinks about the past years, when he thinks about 

_Keith, I’m seeing someone, and I want you to meet him_.

and

_Ever since Allura died, I just… haven’t been the same?_

and 

_Fine. I’ll see you next time you’re back in the atmosphere. Sorry for fucking you, I guess._

When he thinks of all that, he can’t deny that…

“You could be right.” Keith lifts his gaze to Lance’s profile. “It… might have been easier that way.”

“But here we are instead,” says Lance, with acerbic finality.

“But here we are instead,” Keith agrees.

They fall into silence, both staring at the ceiling. Keith realizes that the glow-in-the-dark stars were left behind in Lance’s childhood bedroom. He wonders if Lance misses them. If he’d rather forget.

“I…”

Lance's expression is pained again, on the precipice of something difficult.

Keith waits.

“Sometimes I wonder if what we had was even love.”

Motionlessly, Keith watches the minute shifts in the muscles of Lance’s face. How the lines beside his dull blue marks tighten involuntarily and then soften when Lance obviously schools them back down. The delicate twitching of his expressive brow, the faded freckles across the bridge of his nose, the light drag of his bottom lip through his white teeth, the front two ever so slightly gapped.

Allura _must_ have loved him.

Lance’s eyelids drift closed. He takes a deep breath and lets it out before rolling his head over on the pillow, eyes shimmering when they reopen. “Can I ask you something?”

Keith’s not sure why his heart jumps. The stress of an unknown question. The fact that Lance is asking permission at all. Warily, he nods.

“How were you so sure you were in love with Shiro? Like, what did it for you?”

It’s… 

How was he…

Huh.

Keith shifts onto his back. He tucks a hand under his head, regarding the white, starless ceiling. “I mean, Shiro was always everything to me,” he says eventually. “The only person I felt comfortable with. The only person I trusted. Who I would die for.”

“We were in a war,” Lance points out. “Our lives were on the line almost every day. Any of us would have died for any of the others, just in the heat of battle.”

“It’s different.” He’s not sure why or how but he knows in his gut it is. “Not just in battle. I would do anything for Shiro. I’d die for Shiro.”

Lance makes a loud noise with his throat that Keith isn’t sure how to read. “C’mon, dude. Would you really?”

“Yes,” Keith says, uncertain why Lance is giving him so much pushback. He turns to look and finds his blue eyes piercing. “I almost did. After I fought the clone.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, the platform was collapsing. We were going to fall. I should have let go of the clone’s body, but I…” Keith looks away, tracing the pattern on Lance’s comforter with the pad of his thumb. “I just couldn’t.”

Lance is silent.

“That’s how I knew it was real love,” Keith goes on. “My feelings for Shiro were always so strong, so overwhelming. If the choice was death or to live in a universe that Shiro was no longer in… I would choose death.”

And Lance… Lance is still silent. Maybe contemplating the depth of Keith’s feelings for Shiro. Maybe comparing it to his own experiences of love.

So Keith stays quiet, too. He thinks of that day, of that moment when light washed over his face and he accepted that he would die together with Shiro, and that was good, that was as it should—

Lance rips back the covers and swings his legs out of bed.

“Keith. Dude.”

Lance’s voice is trembling, oddly strained. Keith jerks his head up to find Lance’s jaw is clenched, the tendon of his neck tautly cabled, as he fumbles for his sweatpants, crumpled on the floor. He looks—

“I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt here,” he says, shoving one leg through, lifting his hips off the bed to tug the pants on. His voice shakes. “I’m gonna assume you are just that fucking dense and aren’t purposefully saying to me right now that it’s only love if you’re willing to kill yourself if you can’t be with that person.”

Keith stares. “Lance, I don’t—”

His broad back flexes, his knuckles white where they clench the sheets. “That’s… That’s not what you’re saying right? You’re just… fucking with me. To be funny. Because your sense of humor’s, like, broken.”

Shoulders hunching, Keith bristles. Adrenaline is starting to course in his veins, telling him to fight, _fight_. It’s Lance; they _fight._

(Right?)

“La— What the hell? I don’t— Why is this affecting y—”

“Maybe because my girlfriend fucking _sacrificed herself_ for the universe!” Lance shoves himself from the bed and whirls to face him, throwing an arm wide. “And here I still am! Like a chump, apparently!”

The fight goes out of Keith in a rush of remorse. He looks away. “…Oh.”

“ _Oh_. Yeah, oh. Maybe that’s why it might affect me. Did you ever think of that, Keith!?”

Lance’s face is red, his eyes are red, his shoulders moving up and down as he breathes heavily. And Keith’s gaze widens, taking him in, because there on his cheeks, framing his eyes perfectly…

“Lance,” Keith says, mouth falling open. “Your marks…”

They’re glowing.

Lance’s expression shifts abruptly from rage to confusion. Hands flying to his cheekbones, he whirls to the mirror vanity.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, staring in horror. He pokes at them. They shine from under his fingertips, blue light reflecting on his nails. “What the _fuck_!?”

“Why are they glowing?” Keith asks in shock, still staring.

“Do I look like I fucking know!?” 

“You would know better than I would!”

“No. No, I wouldn’t.” Lance drops his arms to his side. Clenches his eyes shut. “Because, see, _this…_ ” His head falls back as he lets out a gut-wrenching groan at the ceiling. “This is _exactly what I’m fucking talking about, Allura_!”

He buries his face in his hands and collapses back onto the bed. Blue light emanates from between his fingers.

And Keith stares, wondering what he should say. If he should say anything at all.

In the end, he decides to stay quiet.

After several long moments, Lance sighs. “Sorry,” he says, muffled from behind his hands. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

“It’s all right.” Keith shrugs. “I yell all the time.”

Lance huffs a laugh, and Keith gives a tentative smile, although Lance has yet to pull his hands away from his face.

“It’s just…” Lance’s voice is so small. “…Sometimes I really feel like I hate her.”

Keith’s bones ache in the marrow. _He’s supposed to be healing_.

“And I know I don’t actually. I never could. I loved her, I mean.” He draws his hands away, and the glow has faded, giving off only a weak glimmer from beside Lance’s averted eyes. “I loved her, and she… saved everyone. She’s a hero, she— I should—” His face convulses, and he whips it aside, away from Keith. His shoulders tremble.

For a long, heart-racing moment, Keith chews his lip. “Look,” he says finally, quietly. “I’m not an expert. Obviously you have, um, Belinda for that…”

“Brenda.”

“Right, Brenda. And I’m sure you’ve talked to her about this, but, um…” Keith swallows, lifts a hand and lets it hover above Lance’s shoulder for too long before he allows it to land. “You can hate her… if you want, I think.”

Lance snorts. It comes out wet. “Therapy with Keith Kogane, folks. ‘Just hate your ex who sacrificed herself, if you want to!’”

Keith rolls his eyes. Typical Lance “Humor as a Defense Mechanism” McClain. “Well…!” he says, playing along. “Why not?”

Lance sighs. “Because I really don’t, though. I haven’t for years now; I thought I was past it. But then you…” He waves his hand in Keith’s general direction in a way that Keith takes to mean _started running your mouth about dying for love_. “…and then I…” He gestures to his own face, where the marks are barely giving off a sheen.

Keith doesn’t know what to say other than, “Sorry…” He begins rubbing circles into Lance’s shoulder and upper arm, hoping it helps but feeling it couldn’t possibly.

“The worst part is that I have no fucking clue what it means.”

“The glowing?”

“Yeah.” Lance sighs. “And that, the not knowing, just reminds me how… how _incomprehensible_ her last few moments were to me. And that makes me want to scream.”

“So it’s happened before?”

He nods. “It used to happen a lot, actually. Maybe for the first six months or so after she— after the war ended. But gradually it stopped. This is the first time in years, probably.”

“Didn’t you guys say that it only happens to certain Alteans? The Chosen, or whatever?”

“That was something with Oriande and the White Lion. It doesn’t make any sense why they would glow here on Earth.”

“Well…” Keith racks his brain. “You were… thinking about Allura, right? Maybe it has something to do with that.”

Lance chews his lip, his expression unreadable. “…Yeah,” he says finally. “Maybe.”

While Lance stares into space, clearly deep in thought, Keith takes the opportunity to study his marks. They’ve finally returned to their dull, matte blue. They look like little more than tattoos gracing the curves of his cheekbones, highlighting the indigo of his eyes. 

On impulse, Keith lifts a hand to the nearer one and brushes a fingertip over it. It’s warm to the touch.

Lance’s breath hitches, eyes flaring wide.

Keith snatches his hand away. He realizes suddenly how… how _intimate_ that impulse was. His stomach flips.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. His fingertip tingles. He clenches it into a fist.

“’Sokay.” Lance’s voice is hoarse.

Keith glances at him and away again when he realizes Lance is watching him. “…Does it feel weird?” he asks haltingly. “To have someone else touch them.”

Lance shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “Lots of people are curious. My nieces…”

“Right.”

“…Exes…”

Keith digs his nail into his palm. He nods. “Makes sense.” 

Slowly, Lance’s own fingers inch up to touch where Keith pressed his fingerprint. “I guess it kind of tingles to have you touch it, though,” he chuckles breathlessly.

Keith doesn’t know why that makes his whole hand clench with static.

***

When Keith proposes Lance as a potential partner for the Blade, both Kolivan and Krolia say the same thing:

“...”

Eventually, Keith manages to wangle out of them the reason for their reticence: they assumed he meant admitting Lance as a Blade himself. Tradition mandates that each Blade member own and activate their own luxite blade, something that Lance, having no Galra blood, would be incapable of doing. When Keith explains that he meant they should hire Lance as more of a contractor rather than a full member, Kolivan and Krolia share a look, and Kolivan gives Keith a terse nod that Keith knows means they’re off to the races.

(Keith laughs to himself. Lance thinks _he_ needs to be translated into human English, but Kolivan is another issue entirely.)

The day of Lance’s presentation finds Keith jittery. Too busy to go get Lance himself, he has to wait restlessly for his arrival. The thought that Lance hasn’t flown a spacecraft in _years_ burrows into his brainstem, unassuaged by countless _he’ll be fine_ s and _he co-piloted the giant robot that saved the universe, Kogane, chill the fuck out_ s.

To take his mind off it, Keith busies himself with mundane tasks he’s been putting off. Finishing up project reports, counting hours spent, tallying supplies estimated versus supplies actually needed. When he’s finished, he has just enough time to remove his datapad from the dock at his desk and cross the Blade ship to the conference room.

To his surprise, Lance is already there, chatting freely with Acxa at one end of the long table. He’s dressed in something similar to his Garrison outfit, blue jacket starched and pressed—both a callback to his part in the war and an indicator of professionalism, clearly something Lance chose with purpose. His body language is relaxed, feet spread apart and smile wide and beaming, but Keith sees nervous tension in the way he lets his weight shift back and forth, in the way his eyes, when they meet Keith’s across the room, glint with a shade of anxiety, telegraphed through the cool, filtered air for Keith alone.

Keith’s legs are about to carry him over to provide Lance some last-minute encouragement—a hand on his upper back, hushed words of confidence—but Kolivan clears his throat. All Keith manages is a twitchy smile in Lance's direction as he takes his seat across from Krolia.

Once everyone is seated, Kolivan takes the floor, his huge, clawed hands folded on the table before him. “Thank you, everyone, for taking time to attend this meeting.”

As usual, his growled words of welcome somehow remain soaked with taciturnity, evoking little warmth. Keith sneaks a glance at Lance, whose eyes meet Keith’s for just one instant before they both look away. _That’s Kolivan, all right,_ they seem to say to each other. The shared amusement settles brightly in Keith’s chest, forcing him to hide a smile.

“As you all know, winning new contracts has been a challenge for us for the past several years. We are grateful for the support from Sadus 14, but our work there will be completed within the next two phoebs. On suggestion from Keith…”

Keith keeps his face stoic as he feels eyes flick to him. He knows the other Blade members had to grow used to the phrase _on suggestion from Keith_ even before the war was over. He knows, moreover, that the phrase is not always well received. He’s overheard some of the more traditional, close-minded members echoing them in high-pitched, mocking tones in the halls, especially after he suggested the militant guerrilla group turn instead to humanitarian efforts.

Kolivan, however, continues inexorably: “...We have invited Lance McClain, former Paladin of Voltron, to share with us a proposal for how to better market our services in order to appeal to potential funders.”

A haughty snort breaks the brief silence. All heads turn towards the source of sound.

Keith narrows his eyes. _Of course. Moshek._

A hulking figure even by Galra standards, Moshek is one of Keith’s primary detractors. At least, Keith is pretty sure he is. They’ve never had any run-ins, per se, but Moshek always sits there during meetings with an air of _I’m-too-good-for-this_ or _I-could-be-a-mercenary-but-instead-I’m-stuck-helping-people-boo-fucking-hoo_. He’s never said anything directly, but Keith can tell that’s how he feels.

Basically, he sucks, and Keith knows it.

“Moshek,” says Kolivan. “You object to the tactics the former Blue Paladin will suggest to us.”

“Blue and Red Paladin,” Keith puts in under his breath. He ignores the look that Krolia shoots him.

“Yes. This kind of strategy is… undignified,” Moshek rumbles. “The Blade has been in operation for thousands of years. We operate on the strength of our reputation. We need no such strategy.”

“Right, because that’s been working so well for us,” Keith drawls. He knows from the prick of their ears that Kolivan and Krolia are picking up his note of aggravation now, but he doesn’t care. Something about Moshek’s tone is rubbing him the wrong way, getting his hackles up.

“I think what Keith’s trying to say…” It shouldn’t surprise Keith that it’s Lance who cuts in so smoothly, but somehow his first words of the meeting slice through the tension unexpectedly. His voice is full of avid personability, a marked departure from the terseness of the other attendees. All eyes turn to him almost involuntarily, like an exotic bird has found its way into the conference room. “…is that the Blade’s reputation as a clandestine military organization is sterling, yes. _But_ you’ve been transitioning to a humanitarian operation—and that’s totally different! It’s no surprise there have been some growing pains.”

Kolivan hums. It sounds like rolling thunder. “The Blue Paladin makes a point.”

“Blue and Red Paladin,” Keith grumbles. Lance’s eyes flick to his and then back to Kolivan’s.

“…Blue and Red Paladin,” Kolivan repeats, eyeing Keith.

“I still do not like it,” Moshek says, and really, who asked him? (Oh, right. Kolivan.) “The Blade is distinguished. The Blade is eternal. It need not resort to petty tricks to gain the notice of—”

“Petty tricks!?” Keith snaps, leaning forward. “Lance isn’t some… some carnival barker! He’s a professional—”

“Keith, buddy!” Lance’s chuckle cuts him off, his smile strained. “Seems like you’re taking care of the pitch for me. Let me get a word in edgewise, why don’t you?” He gives a hushed aside to the rest of the room: “Mr. Talkative over here, am I right? You know how he is.” He leans over to dig an elbow into Antok’s upper arm and grins, blinking coquettishly.

Antok only turns his impassive, masked face toward Lance. 

Krolia chuckles.

“Anyhoo,” says Lance, unperturbed. “Let me give you guys a little taste of the kind of thing I do down on Earth, and some of the ideas I have for the Blade—which, spoiler alert, I love the, um, _boldness_ of keeping the name ‘the Blade’ for a humanitarian organization, but intimidation may not be the way to go, long-term. Just a thought. We’ll get to that in a few. Now sit back, relax, and let me give you all a little taste of my petty Red-and-Blue-Paladin trickery.”

Lance’s presentation goes well. Incredibly well, actually; even Keith is impressed, and he knew Lance was capable. By the end of it, Kolivan is asking questions—always a good sign—and Moshek shuts his stupid jackass mouth, so Keith is happy.

After the meeting is adjourned, Keith lingers in the room as Lance packs up his laptop. Lance is uncharacteristically quiet, and something in Keith’s stomach tells him he ought to fill the silence with reassurance. 

“Well, that went well,” he says brightly.

“Mm, yeah, it seemed to.”

Keith shifts. Rests one hip on the conference table and then thinks better of it and straightens again. Somehow Lance’s quietness is making him feel off-kilter.

“I think everyone really liked what you brought,” he tries again.

“Yeah, I think so, too.”

“Even Kolivan. And he’s not exactly easy to please.”

“Mm.”

“All except for that jackass, Moshek,” Keith grumbles. “‘Petty tricks.’ I oughta tear him a fucking new one.”

Lance huffs an awkward laugh. “Yeah, man, he was kind of a jerk,” he says, “but what was with that outburst?”

Keith blinks. “Whose outburst?”

“Yours.”

Keith’s eyes widen. “Mine?”

“Yeah.” Lance is standing up straight now, his arms crossed. He actually looks frustrated. “I mean, you’re the one who _asked_ me to do this. You know I’m a professional, right? I’m used to people not seeing the value in what I do. I can handle myself, Keith.”

“I don’t think you can’t handle yourself!”

“Well, then you don’t have to try to defend me or whatever that was.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

Lance lifts his eyebrows.

Keith screws up his mouth. “Okay, fine, I was trying to defend you, I _guess_. But that’s just because he was pissing me off. You know, I always thought he was an asshole, and today he finally proved me right.”

For a few more moments, Lance just stares at Keith. Then, seeming to come to some conclusion, he laughs, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Keith crosses his arms. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Lance chirps. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and steps forward, arm outstretched and smiling.

Begrudgingly, Keith steps in and gives him his asked-for hug. “Yeah, yeah, congratulations,” he mutters, patting him between the shoulder blades.

“Oh, uh—” Lance stiffens before relaxing against Keith, arm closing around Keith’s back belatedly but firmly. “…Thanks, man,” he breathes into Keith’s ear. “I’m glad we’re working together again.”

The hug is stretching, but it’s okay, Keith thinks, his cheek pressed against Lance’s. Lance asked for it, anyway. Sincerely, he tells him, “Me, too.”

Slowly they disengage. The air feels different without Lance against him, cold rushing in. When their eyes meet, Lance’s expression is one of wry amusement.

Keith leans back, wary. “What?”

Lance’s smile widens, his gaze flicking from Keith’s over his shoulder and back again. “I was just going for the door, actually…”

Heat shoots up Keith’s spine, his face blooming red-hot in an instant. He whirls aside, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I— You looked like you were— And _you’re_ the one who likes hugs!”

A hand ruffles his hair, and he bats it away violently. Lance laughs. “Come on, samurai,” he says fondly, making the embarrassed heat in Keith’s stomach squirm, “I think you owe me a drink for all the moolah I’m gonna rake in for you guys.”

***

Something that hasn’t changed since their Voltron days: Lance still takes forever in the shower.

Something that _has_ : Keith no longer has to wait for him to be done to get clean himself.

Case in point: currently, they’re squeezed into Lance’s shower-bath combo, and Keith is hungrily watching Lance run soapy hands over his broad chest, wondering exactly when Lance’s body metamorphosed from slender and reedy to lean muscle. Keith knows his own body hasn’t changed much since Voltron; he’s still built like a blade, jagged and slender. He filled out some during his time in the Quantum Abyss, but the inches didn’t translate into heft, necessarily, just coiled muscle. Even now, the commander uniform he wears on official business only accents how narrow his hips remain, how taut the ass that Lance apparently never tires of slapping, much to Keith’s put-on chagrin and secret pleasure.

Lance’s body, on the other hand, is just one more thing that has changed since the war. His shoulders were always broad, but in their Voltron days they were more like coat-hanger broad, making Lance look top-heavy compared to his slim waist and skinny hips. Now his chest has filled out, his abs punctuated with a line of well-kempt hair leading down from his belly button, and his _ass_ , well… Keith can’t see it right now but he wasn’t lying about what he told Lance that night he rode him into the floorboards.

Lance’s grin is smug through the steam. “Like what you see?”

“Waiting for the soap,” Keith lies, grumbling. “I have a meeting to get to.”

Lance’s face doesn’t change: a sure sign he sees right through Keith. It doesn’t annoy him as much as it used to. “Get my back and it’s all yours.” He presses the bar of soap into Keith’s hand without waiting for Keith to agree.

“Ugh, fine,” Keith groans, rolling his eyes. “Turn around, then. But don’t get on my case if my ‘technique’ is not up to your ridiculous, Lance McClain stan—”

Keith’s tongue curls up in his mouth. When Lance turns around, Keith catches sight of his back and it’s—

It’s a massive spiderweb of scar tissue, shiny and mottled-pink against his tawny skin. Tendrils crawl irregularly up his spine and shoulder blades, spanning nearly his entire upper back. Seeing it makes Keith’s insides shrivel in horror.

“W-what—” He has to stop. Clear his throat. His eyes feel huge in his skull. “When did—?”

“Huh?” Lance cranes his neck and then quickly turns his face away again. “Oh. That.”

Keith swallows hard, still staring. “What…”

“That’s really old. I actually, uh…” Lance’s shoulders hunch. “…didn’t know you didn’t know about it…” 

“This is…” _o_ _ld…?_ He reaches out. Lance flinches when his fingertips brush between healthy skin and scar tissue. “Was I there for this?”

“Kind of. It’s from Sendak’s attack on the castle.”

Keith feels his brows lift. He presses his palm against Lance, feeling how the scar tissue seems slicker, tauter beneath his hand. “When you jumped in front of Coran?”

“Yeah.” Lance nods. Then he chuckles: “Hey, maybe I’m in love with Coran.”

Keith feels his head jerk back. “What?”

“Because I was willing to sacrifice myself for him? Must mean I’m in love with him.” Lance’s tone is teasing, but his posture is tense. “According to Keith Kogane rules, anyway.”

Keith’s jaw sets, his teeth clenching. He doesn’t know why but Lance’s joking is pissing him off in a way it hasn’t for months. 

Maybe it’s because he remembers back then. He remembers feeling _scared_ for Lance. He remembers kneeling beside him, taking his hand, pulling him up. Remembers a delirious Lance murmuring to him, smiling through his pain.

Remembers feeling _connected._

Remembers feeling _hopeful._

Remembers having those feelings dashed.

Wordlessly, he lifts the soap to Lance’s skin and begins to lather it over the spiderweb scar. He works swiftly, silently, while his mind spins out.

What if Lance hadn’t rejected their bonding moment? Or, more likely, what if Keith hadn’t taken it quite so personally, hadn’t written Lance off so quickly? What if instead he had gone to Lance’s quarters, talked to him alone? Because now he _knows_ Lance, knows that in front of a crowd of people is not the place to have a serious conversation. _“For Lance McClain, three’s an audience,”_ right? He was putting on a show. He was confused, scared, alone in space, trying to play out a one-sided rivalry with a teammate who made him feel desperate and inadequate, shoving a square peg into a round hole so that things would make sense to him.

And didn’t he always kind of like Lance, after all? He always thought he didn’t, _told_ himself he didn’t, but… but all these months—almost years, now—spent together in this easy ebb-and-flow… it’s not so different from how they were then, is it? He remembers teasing Lance, ribbing Lance, even comforting Lance, and— and _trusting_ Lance implicitly, the way he does now. Sure, almost all of their interactions back then were predicated on the conditions of war, but that just means their bond was forged in fire, in blood, in cold, violent vastness. 

How could he not like Lance? He— surely, he did… he’s sure of it...

“You know, I, uh…”

Keith waits. Wishes the drum of the water were not quite so loud upon the white tiles.

Lance chuckles. “I _did_ die, actually.”

This time Keith really does drop the soap. It lands with a bang on the porcelain and then careens along the halfpipe tub to swirl around the drain. _“What?”_

“Yeah,” Lance says, like it’s a fun fact about him. _I died, ha-ha._ “I just realized you probably didn’t know. It was while you were with the Blade.”

“You died.” Keith’s throat feels tight. It’s not letting any emotion through to his words.

“Yeah. But… it got bettah!”

Keith stares at the back of Lance’s head.

“ _Monty Python_? No?” Lance shrugs. When he turns slightly, Keith can see a grin tugging at his lips.

“You _died_ ,” he says again.

Lance sighs. Like _Keith_ is the one being unreasonable. “Yeah,” he says, and finally all the playfulness is gone from his tone. “I jumped in front of Allura during a battle in our Lions to take a blast of radiation. She healed me with quintessence but apparently when she got to me inside Red I was… nonresponsive.”

“You died inside Red?” 

Keith feels hollowed out. It happened in Red…? Somehow that makes it worse. Like he left Lance somewhere he should have been safe only to learn that the armor was a mere costume, punched through like wet cardboard.

And Lance back then—so thin, so young, so fragile, his heart a sponge.

“Yeah. But I’m fine now, so…” Lance bends down to pick up the soap, and Keith barely registers the sly look he tosses over his shoulder. “Looks like I loved Allura more than you loved Shiro.”

Uh— what— 

Lance is throwing so much at him right now. 

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” Lance drawls, his tone back to entirely too playful for the conversation, Keith thinks, “I actually managed to sacrifice myself for the person _I_ loved. You just, like, fell? With everything that was already disintegrating? Pfft, anyone can do _that_.”

He grins lopsidedly as he passes back the soap. Like he wants Keith to smile back at him, or laugh, or something.

Keith can’t bring himself to. He just frowns as he starts to roughly lather the soap between his hands. “Turn around,” he tells him gruffly, “I’m not done.”

With a slightly bemused look, Lance obeys. Still grimacing, Keith sets aside the bar and replaces his palms on Lance’s body, skating over the skin and scar tissue alike. He can feel how his eyebrows stay furrowed, his jaw clenched, as he smooths his hands across Lance’s flesh, so much harder, fuller, now. Grown-up. Capable. Strong.

God, they were young back then. What the fuck did they know?

He jumps when his alarm goes off. His hands are pressed to Lance’s lower back, and he realizes belatedly his thumbs have been tracing circles over the dimples in his skin.

He curses, rushing to soap himself up. “My meeting.”

“Shit, sorry.” Lance turns back around, his mouth pulled in an apologetic smile. “Felt so nice, I guess I lost track of time.”

When Keith climbs out and frantically towels off, Lance is still enjoying his shower. Again, some things haven’t changed. What has changed is how Keith’s body flushes hot when Lance pouts through the curtain, “Guess you won’t be fucking me in the shower after all.”

“Hrghh,” Keith groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Is that why you wanted me to ‘get your back’?”

“You see right through me,” Lance sing-songs. “Enjoy your meeting. Give Moshek my best.”

Laughter follows a frustrated and growling Keith out the bathroom door.

Keith is late to his meeting, hair wet and smelling of Lance’s wintry citrus-and-clove body wash, made more salient to Keith’s nose since he’s grown used to Lance’s autumnal scents. He wonders how many more seasons he’ll pass with Lance, accustoming himself to each new festive scent.

He doesn’t try to provide himself an answer.

***

“Don’t move.”

“Lance—”

“I said don’t move! Not one single muscle. You’re perfect right there.”

“Rgh, it’s really hard not to move a single muscle…”

“Well, do your best, samurai. I’m almost ready, and the light is perfect.”

Keith huffs but otherwise tries hold still. The golden sunlight is strong on his face, making him squint. “I can’t stay like this forever.”

“That’s what the camera is for!” Lance replies cheerily.

They’ve been at this for what feels like hours. Lance directs him into lighting and poses, tells him exactly the kind of expression he’s hoping for ( _contemplative! determined! all right, now a silly one!_ ), and then snaps countless pictures, the shutter clicking loudly as Keith tries not to let his face slip into discomfort. This is even their third location, making this the most complicated photoshoot Keith has been a part of since Shiro’s wedding.

The worst of it is that Lance doesn’t seem to realize that he himself looks particularly chiseled and enticing in the sunset glow, his smile flashing white under the slanting shadows of his cheekbones. They haven’t gotten their hands on each other yet today—an anomaly for them as of late—and the tedium of posing and holding and holding and posing has provided fertile soil for a lustful heat to take root in Keith’s core. He finds himself stealing more and more glances at Lance’s shoulders, Lance’s waist, the tempting swell of Lance’s ass in those—

“All right, perfect! Now just one last thing and then we can move on to the next activity…”

Keith blinks himself alert. Lance is fiddling with the camera, checking his latest before he looks up at Keith. “What’s the next activity?” he asks suspiciously.

“Well, Matt invited us to watch him DJ at this club toni—”

_“No.”_

Lance bursts into raucous, almost wheezing laughter. “Oh my god, it’s too easy,” he snickers, shaking his head as Keith scowls at him. “That was a joke, man. Unclench.”

Keith continues scowling.

“Hm, well, my plan to make my actual suggestion seem better in comparison may have backfired on me, but…” He cocks his head. “Picture together?”

“Lance, you know I don’t like selfies…”

“Not a selfie! The camera has a timer function.” He turns the view screen to Keith, as though Keith can make heads or tails of it. “I can just set it up over there, and it’ll take a picture after, like, ten seconds or something.”

Keith frowns. “Of just the two of us?” 

“Yeah!”

“For the farm?”

“Uhh…” Lance runs a hand through his hair and then quickly pats it back down again, like he just realized he wants it to look nice. “No, I wasn’t thinking of that. I mean, people loved that one of the two of us in the barn, but we aren’t even on the premises right now...”

“...Then why?”

Lance looks away and shrugs. “I dunno. We don’t have very many, I guess?”

Still frowning, Keith mulls that over.

“Or _any_ , actually,” Lance goes on, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, “of us. Just us, I mean? Nice ones of just us? Like, not selfies. Nice ones?” And he looks back to Keith and smiles hopefully and—

And…

And okay, Keith is admittedly very horny, and this photoshoot has been strangely exhausting, but it does seem to have fostered an appreciation of nice pictures of himself. He doesn’t really have any; even in the ones from Shiro's wedding, he was barely smiling, for obvious reasons.

“You know what, forget it. It was a stupid idea. You’re probably tired, and I didn’t even do my hair, it would just look—”

“Okay.”

Lance’s mouth clicks shut, his eyes widening at Keith. “O-okay?”

“Okay, let’s do it,” Keith says with finality. “Let’s take a picture.”

Lance’s eyebrows twitch, a smile tugging at his lips. “Really? You want to—”

“Quick, before I change my mind.”

“Y-you got it!” Lance is on his feet in a second, scampering over to the rock ledge where he dropped his backpack. He fiddles with the camera, settling it just so. His tongue sticks out of one side of his mouth as he concentrates. It’s cute. If Keith had his own camera, he would take a picture of _that_ , not all this fake, posing nonsense.

“I’m gonna set it for ten seconds,” Lance calls over to him.

“...Okay?” Keith doesn’t know exactly what to say to that. “Fine?”

“And multiple shots, like a photo booth!”

“No, Lance.”

Lance doesn’t reply, only hits a button on the camera, carefully removes his hands, and then darts over to Keith, settling down beside him quickly. He drapes an arm around Keith’s shoulder, tilts his head, and smiles in the direction of the camera.

Keith spares a glance at Lance’s profile, mere inches away. He tells himself it’s to watch a master at work, but the thought whisks away in an instant. Lance’s skin glows like burnished gold in the sunset, his lips plush and quirked up in an earnest smile. Keith’s stomach twists, his heart thumping against his ribs because— 

Because— 

...Um, probably because he’ll never be able to hit his mark like that. Because no matter how many “pro tips” Lance gives him on phonogenicity, he could never achieve this expression of simple, charming affability that Lance has assumed so effortlessly.

Yeah, that’s it.

“Look at the camera, dude,” Lance hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

“O-oh.” Keith flinches his face ahead, tries via muscle memory to summon up that smile that Lance approved, but it’s only a split second later the shutter clicks. “Shit, I don’t think I—”

Grinning, Lance rubs his shoulder. “It’s okay, I put it on multishot.”

“Lance!”

After Keith has suffered through three more poses—in the last of which Lance tried to do bunny ears on him, so Keith reached back to grip Lance by his first two fingers and wrenched his hand forward, scowling into Lance’s answering grin—Lance hoists himself up and trots back over to the camera, pulling up the gallery.

“Wanna see?” he asks eagerly.

Keith shakes his head so firmly his bangs have to resettle on his forehead. “Absolutely not. It was bad enough having to take them.”

Lance pouts. “Aww, come on, Keith. If you don’t get immediate feedback, you’ll never learn how to take a good picture!”

“I got enough feedback before this… off-brand photo booth,” Keith grumbles, shaking out his ponytail just to retie it. He feels jittery, the chill in the twilight air more noticeable now that Lance’s body heat is gone from his side. “Are we done now? I’m getting cold.”

“The great Keith Kogane finally admits he gets cold,” Lance murmurs, not looking up from the camera.

“I get cold. Just not as easily as you do, setting the thermostat to eighty degrees whenever it dips below fifty.”

And he can practically hear Lance’s normal retort ( _“I like to be cozy! I saved the universe, Keith, I deserve to be cozy!”)_, and has his own retort on the tip of his tongue, the one that he thought of when he was flying back to the Marmora base and has been waiting greedily to drop on Lance like a bomb: _“Saved the universe only to kill the planet…”_

God, it’s a hole-in-one, gonna make Lance squawk in indignation and then laugh his ass off.

But Lance’s retort doesn’t come. Only silence.

Drawing his jacket over his arms, Keith looks over to where Lance is standing. To Keith’s surprise, Lance is still just staring at the camera. His formerly wide smile has faltered. Color is in his cheeks, rosy in the crisp dusk beneath delicate, loosely pinched brows.

“...Lance?”

He flinches, like Keith snapped a rubber band on his arm. “Y-yeah!”

Keith frowns, crossing his arms against the chill. “What’s the deal? Are they terrible? I’m not retaking them, I refuse…”

“N-no!” It’s a suspiciously stuttered rush that makes Keith narrow his eyes. Lance lifts a hand defensively, shaking his head quickly. “No, they’re not! You look great, man. Really— really great! The pictures are… also great. Great all around. It’s greatness.”

Keith sets his mouth into a skeptical line. Lance smiles shakily back before hurriedly clicking the camera to the off position.

“Uhh… as you were saying? Before?”

“I’m cold,” Keith tells him flatly.

“Oh, right. Yeah. Uhh, well, it’ll probably be really warm at the club, all those bodies—”

_“Lance—”_

Lance barks another laugh. “He would not could not in a club,” he chuckles. “Then let’s go home? Uh, I mean, back to my place? I can turn the thermostat up—”

Keith sighs, long-suffering at the mention of the thermostat, and Lance finally huffs a laugh in response. 

“I deserve to be cozy, Keith! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s one of the perks: you don’t have to freeze your ass off in the dead of winter if you save the universe!” 

Keith’s heart pounds, joyfully triumphant, as he opens his mouth to let out that perfect retort.

Lance’s reaction is everything he wanted.

***

Two hours later, Keith is curled up on the couch, swaddled in fleece blankets. Luna is eyeing him with interest from her cat tree while he waits for Lance to choose something for them to watch. Lance has apparently not given up on getting Keith to cry at a movie. He's even been making a list of films he thinks are good candidates, which he refuses to allow Keith to see.

Keith sighs, his chin in his hand. Luna stretches, her tail curling against her leg, before she begins to make her way coyly to the couch. “Just pick one already.”

“Don’t rush me!” Lance hisses. “It has to be perfect, okay? I have to look through the whole list and compare them to your mood right now.”

Making room for Luna in his lap, Keith drawls, “I’m never in the mood to cry at a movie, Lance. That’s why I _don’t_.”

Lance narrows his eyes at him, studying. Then his gaze flicks down to Luna, curled up primly among the blankets. Shrewdly, he murmurs, “So you’re in an animal mood...”

Panic. “No, Lance. No movies where the dog dies, that’s just cheap—”

“Neither of them die! I wouldn’t do that to myself, let alone _you_.” His indignant look skirts away sheepishly. “They just… can’t actually stay friends forever, like they thought they would.”

“Lance…”

“But _no one dies!_ ” As though that settles it, Lance lifts the remote and turns on the TV. When a blank screen appears with an input error, he groans and swings himself up. “Fuck, I think I switched the HDMI to play a game with Pidge. Just a sec. Let ol’ Lancey the Cable Guy fix it up for us and then the crying can commence.”

Keith pauses his lascivious staring at Lance’s ass to fix him with a glare. “Do not get me started on Larry the Cable Guy.”

“Oh, do you have a strong opinion about another human being? I never would have guessed.”

“He’s awful,” Keith insists, because Lance’s teasing grin is getting him started. (And he said not to get him started. Typical Lance.) “You know that wasn’t his actual accent, right? You know he was from Nebraska, not the South.”

“Yeah, it’s, _hrg_ , it’s like a character, right?” Lance grunts as he reaches behind the TV.

“A character that he used to make fun of people from the South. When he wasn’t even from there! Don’t you think that’s shitty?” 

“But like, wasn’t it kind of _wink, wink, you’re in on the joke_? Wasn’t that his ‘charm’?”

“You _would_ think that’s charming.”

Still halfway behind the TV, Lance barks out a laugh. “Look, I don’t particularly care for him myself, I just don’t have, like, an internal treatise on why this man didn’t deserve to live his— fuck, I dropped the cable, goddamn—”

“Oh, please,” Keith scoffs. “I don’t care enough to write a treatise.”

Another laugh from behind the TV stand. Lance rocks forward so just his plump ass is peeking out, outlined by his gray sweatpants.

(Keith wonders, not for the first time that day, if Lance would be up to him finally tapping that tonight. It’s just so difficult to think of anything aside from bouncing on Lance’s dick when he gets his hand around it. Long, thick, straining, perfectly proportioned to get Keith’s mouth watering—)

He shakes himself. Lance is talking. “You know, Kogane,” he’s musing, “I used to think you were out of my league. Now I realize that you’re just as much of a dork as I am.”

Keith scowls in Lance’s direction as his phone buzzes. Wordlessly, he unlocks it to read the text. It’s from Shiro.

**Shiro**  
Any chance you would want to meet a little earlier for lunch tomorrow? Maybe more like a breakfast/brunch?

 **Keith**  
Sure why

“No answer to that one, huh?”

“It didn’t deserve one,” Keith replies easily, not even looking up when Lance snickers. “Hey, it okay if I leave my wolf with you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fuck you.”

Lance dissolves into giggles. “Yeah, sure, of course. Love me some Kupcake time. I think he and Luna are really starting to acknowledge each other’s presence. What’re you up to?”

“I forgot to tell you, I’m meeting Shiro for lunch.”

“Keith! I don’t know what they’re teaching you in the Blade, but we don’t condone cannibalism here on Earth.”

Keith pauses, narrowing his eyes at Lance’s lightly swinging hips. “What—”

The buzz of his phone cuts him off.

**Shiro  
** Curtis and I had kind of a big fight. It’d be nice to get out of the house.

Keith’s eyebrows lift. 

He reads the words over. 

Over again.

His stomach flips with each reread. Shiro and Curtis had a fight. _Kind of a big fight._ Shiro wants to get out of the house, wants to see _Keith_.

“—said, ‘I’m eating Shiro for lunch,’ Keith, which really is—” 

“Shiro wants to meet early,” Keith says dumbly, staring at the screen. He leans forward from the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, his phone clutched in his hand. “He says he and Curtis had a fight.”

“Oh, really?” Lance huffs a laugh, still bent behind the TV. “Now’s your chance.”

Still staring, Keith murmurs, “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”

Lance goes quiet. Then: “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I mean.” Keith runs a jittery hand through his hair. “He says it was, quote, ‘kind of a big fight,’ and he wants to ‘get out of the house.’ Doesn’t that sound serious to you?”

“Sounds like they had a fight and he wants some space.”

“But he wants to see _me_.”

“You’re friends, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Keith…” Lance finally emerges from behind the TV. He sits back on his heels, shoulders slumped. His mouth is turned down at the corners, the light reflecting in his eyes somehow wavering. “What are we doing?”

Keith’s stomach turns.

Silence reigns between them but for the echo of Lance’s question. It rings teeth-rattlingly loud in Keith’s skull, jangling all thought from his head.

He’s—

They’re—

Grieving—

Bonding—

_Healing—_

(…right?)

Keith’s throat pulses as he swallows. “Watching a movie?” he offers, his voice bare.

They’re…

Lance seems so small, kneeling on the rug. And all he does is look at him.

The eye contact breaks when Lance snorts and shakes his head. “Oh,” he laughs. “Right. Duh, Lance.”

Keith feels adrift. His rapidly accelerating heart is telling him that there is danger here, but he doesn’t— he can’t—

Lance slaps his palms to his thighs. “Well, then, let’s get this over with, huh? This exercise in futility.” He grins in Keith’s direction but his eyes skitter away, never meeting Keith’s as he crawls over to the couch. He settles on the floor at the opposite end from Keith, his back to the seat. 

So far away…

Normally, Lance eyes Keith’s position on the couch with a huff, how Keith has laid out, has gathered all of the blankets and sometimes Luna, too, around him. Normally, Lance clicks his tongue at him until Keith lifts his legs so Lance can slide underneath him, rest his ankles on Lance’s lap. Normally, Lance complains about how cold Keith’s feet are and begrudgingly decides to warm them up—something about how he’s pampering Keith now so that Keith will pamper him later, some nebulous _later_ that Lance never cashes in on.

Now, all Lance does is hit play. Draw his knees up to his chest, rest his cheek in his hand, and watch in silence.

After a moment, Keith asks, “Do you want a blanket?”

“Huh? Oh, sure.” 

Lance takes it quietly, clearly miles away. He settles it around his shoulders so he is cocooned, only his head showing.

Keith watches him for a long moment. He probably should say something but he has no idea what. Because they both know what they’re doing here, right? Grieving? Bonding over the people they want to be with but can’t. And for Lance, Keith hopes, healing. Healing from a soul-deep pain that makes Keith’s own chest throb in answer.

Maybe… maybe that’s why Lance is upset. Because Keith _does_ have a chance, however small, whereas Lance has none. Because it reminds Lance what he’s lost and never can get back.

…Maybe that’s it.

Keith does not cry at the movie, but it’s not the movie’s fault. It’s Lance’s. Lance, who fiddles with his phone almost the entire run time. Lance, who barely bats an eye when Luna begins to purr loudly on Keith’s lap. Lance, who when Keith whispers, “Look at her,” because Luna’s sleeping so contorted that she looks like her legs are attached to opposite sides of her spine, gives little more than a perfunctory half-smile before returning to his phone.

By the time the movie is over, not only are Keith’s eyes dry, but his mouth and throat and lips, as well. As credits roll, Lance tosses over his shoulder, “I’m gonna guess no tears?”

“Nope, not for this one,” Keith replies, trying to imbue his words with lightness and sympathy. It comes out cracked and strained.

“Dunno why I try,” Lance quips. He shoves himself to his feet and kicks the blanket up onto the couch, stretching his shoulders. “Welp, I’m gonna get ready for bed. I’m beat. Feel free to join whenever.”

“…Okay.” 

Lance is already gone.

Keith sits on the couch for what feels like a long time, listening to the muffled clatter of Lance brushing his teeth, the on-off-on-off of the bathroom sink as he washes his face and applies his cream. Idly, he scritches Luna under her ears, under her chin, until she grows bored and begins to flick her tail. He grants her her space, watching her hop off his lap and pad across the room to her tree. She climbs it in two effortless bounds, curling up on the top level as Lance turns off the bathroom light and goes to his room.

After a moment, Keith rises from the couch, as well. The apartment feels suddenly strange to him, his footfalls too loud on the old floorboards, as he goes about his meager nightly routine. When he flips the light on in the kitchen to get a glass of water, the room looks oddly barren. It takes him a moment to realize it’s because the bouquet of juniberries that normally resides in the center is gone. He spots the vase clean and empty atop the cupboards. 

When Keith enters Lance’s bedroom a few minutes later, the light is already off, the contours of Lance’s body shadowy and motionless, facing the wall. Keith slips across the room and under the covers. They’re cool on his side of the bed.

For a moment, he watches Lance, how the breaths are taken shallowly, how he holds his body taut. It’s clear he’s only pretending to sleep. Keith wonders if his own fake-sleeping is so obvious. Even more, he wonders if he should ask Lance about whatever is bothering him. His hand itches to lift, to settle curiously on his shoulder, to gently turn Lance until he rolls over and Keith can read his face in the moonlight.

Then Keith’s gaze lands on Lance’s vanity. It takes him a moment to realize why it looks so strange, but when he does, the itch in his hand ceases. The picture frame, the one that holds the photo of Lance and Allura from their last night on Earth, lies face down beside the mirror. As though Lance couldn’t bear to see it any longer.

Inside Keith is an ache. An ache that congeals, rises through his throat and behind his eyes. He digs his nails into the flesh of his palm until it settles and dissipates.

 _Is this what healing looks like?_ , he wonders dully, as he sinks into the bed and curls himself around that twinge, that emptiness.

Because if Lance isn’t healing, if Keith being with him doesn’t give him joy, then what are they doing here, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhh we're really in it now. this chapter is why "keith (voltron) is bad at feelings" is the most important tag of the fic lol.
> 
> thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs) for the beta read!
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter.


	8. Fall for a Shooting Star

Even Keith can admit that the cafe Shiro loves is quaint. Artisanal brews, scones baked fresh every morning, brunch served until well into the afternoon… it’s a gem for the late-risers and the caffeine-addicted alike.

But today its charm is lost on Keith. He often feels slightly on edge around Shiro—a holdover from his awkward teenage feelings, a burning desire to _impress_ him, despite being too tongue-tied to speak—but today it’s compounded by the fact that he woke up alone in an empty apartment.

Lance was gone. His wolf, too. 

Sure, Lance had probably just gone to the farm and taken his wolf with him. Keith knew that. Yet the stillness knotted in Keith’s gut, trailed him like an uneasy shadow as he readied himself to leave. Honestly, meeting Shiro early was a welcome distraction from the cold confusion weighing down his chest. He’s grateful for more than one reason that Shiro and Curtis had a fight.

Speaking of which… they’re almost an hour in, and Shiro still hasn’t mentioned it.

Keith shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Is Shiro just waiting for him to bring it up? It seemed like something he wanted to talk about. God knows Keith wants to talk about it. Anything to distract from waking up to a cold bed, a silent apartment… 

“So…” 

“Hm?” Chewing, Shiro cocks his head at Keith.

“You said that, uh… you and Curtis got in a fight?”

Shiro’s eyebrows lift as he swallows, his rocket arm rubbing the sparse white hair at the back of his head. “Ah, yeah…”

“Did you, um, want to talk about it...?”

After a moment, one side of Shiro’s mouth quirks up. “Keith,” he says slowly. “Are you asking me to talk about my feelings?”

Keith blinks, surprised by the question. Surprised even more by the amusement dancing in Shiro’s eyes. “I… guess so…”

Shiro’s smile spreads further. “Lance has been good for you,” he says, his tone teasing.

Embarrassed heat rushes through Keith. “Wha— Lance has—?” 

He bites his tongue. He supposes it _is_ because of Lance that he’s asking, in a roundabout way. He wouldn’t have thought to ask if Lance hadn’t encouraged him, if he and Lance hadn’t spent the last however many months talking and laughing about his entire history with Shiro. He almost laughs even now thinking about Lance’s Shiro impression, square-jawed and low-voiced.

_Patience yields focus but I most not focus on dat ass—_

_Roses are red, your favorite color’s red too—_

“You two are becoming pretty close, huh?” Shiro picks at his plate, but Keith doesn’t miss the glint in his eye, the tilt of his smile.

It makes his stomach squirm.

“I— Lance and I—” he sputters. “There’s nothing going on with me and Lance. We’re—”

_Keith, what are we doing?_

“We’re just friends, we don’t even— Lance is still— And I—” 

_What are we doing?_

Shiro laughs, holding up a hand. “It’s fine, Keith, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“There’s nothing to explain.” Keith crosses his arms, which only makes Shiro laugh harder. He huffs. “See if I ever ask about your feelings again.”

“Okay, okay,” Shiro allows. “I’ll let up. I know you don’t like talking about that sort of thing with me.”

Keith wonders what that means. Has Shiro noticed how he never talks about his love life, or lack thereof, with him? Does he ever wonder why not?

Does he even want to know?

“And to answer your question,” Shiro goes on, shifting in his chair. Keith watches him carefully. “Yes, Curtis and I did fight last night. It was about something… kind of big, actually.”

Blood rushes in Keith’s ears. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shiro sighs. “Look. Keith…”

Keith’s heart clenches so hard it’s almost painful. Is it really going to happen? He can’t let himself believe it’s going to happen.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while.”

Why does his heart hurt? Why is his stomach twisting into knots?

“Curtis and I are thinking about adopting.”

His blood turns to ice water. It freezes muscles, skin, tendons, bones going so brittle they could shatter.

Belatedly, Keith realizes Shiro is watching him with concern. Awaiting a response.

“Oh.” It’s all he can manage, his jaw cracking with frost. “Okay. Um. Cool.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Shiro goes on. “Last night, we were talking about logistics, and Curtis was saying— oh, it sounds kind of dumb now, honestly,” he chuckles. “He was saying _baby this_ and _nursery that_ and bottles and diapers and milk and— and I was going along with it, but then I thought, ‘Hey, wait a minute. _Baby_? We don’t have to start with a _baby_.’”

He looks at Keith. Keith stares dumbly back.

“I didn’t say anything right away,” Shiro continues. “But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of adopting an older kid. And according to adoption websites, ‘older’ means, like, five years old, but I would be happy to go older than that. Thirteen or fourteen? Maybe even start out fostering. I’ve heard we can specify we’d like to take an LGBT kid, and— and there are so many gay youth on the streets, and we’re a gay couple, I just feel like it might be our chance to do some real good.”

 _That_ brings words back to Keith’s brain. “Sh-Shiro…” He pauses to lick his lips, lean forward. “You literally saved all of reality. You’ve _done_ good.”

Shiro only shrugs. 

Like that’s not enough. Like he still needs to do more, for others. Never for himself.

Keith’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Shiro,” he tries again, and he feels his voice starting to crack under the strain, “when are you going to do something selfish? _Be_ selfish? Go after something that you want, just because you want it, not because you think you should?”

“Keith.” His voice is kind, firm. “This _is_ something I want.”

Keith’s jaw shuts with a click. He tries to understand, to accept it, but— but he feels like air is rushing around him, slipping away from him, _leaving him_. Just when he thought Shiro had drawn in close, it turns out he’s further from Keith than he’s ever been.

“I _want_ that connection with someone,” Shiro goes on. “I love teaching, but it’s not the same. I want to watch someone grow up, see them learn and change and become an adult, and provide the stability and support they need. Cheer them on, you know?” Shiro smiles, his eyes soft. “The way it was with you and me.”

The words puncture, a clean strike to Keith’s already faltering heart. It steals the breath from him. 

So Keith wrenches out the arrowhead with his own hands, whips it back hard and sharp and dripping with his blood.

“Well, I hope for that kid’s sake it’s not exactly like you and me,” he says, “because I was fourteen when I fell stupidly in love with you.”

Stillness.

Shiro’s reaction is stillness, but for once, Keith doesn’t feel too bashful to meet his gaze. He _wants_ to look, to see every minute twitch of facial muscle.

Here’s what he sees:

Shiro’s lips part, suck in a quiet breath. His thick brows lift and then fall. Eyes widen and then readjust, as though seeing Keith for the first time.

Well, he is, Keith supposes. And Keith looks back, raw and defiant.

“...O-oh,” Shiro exhales, quiet, unsure. “Keith, I…” He swallows, his brows twitching down. “Really?”

Keith nods.

Shiro’s eyebrows bend upward, almost mournful. “And… still?”

A split second’s hesitation—

_What are we doing?_

—and, jerkily, Keith nods again. He shoves down the knot of unease that tightens in his gut.

Shiro inhales. Lets it out. “I… I didn’t know.”

And it’s what Keith expected to hear, but still it’s inconceivable.

“ _How_?” Keith breathes. “How could you not know, after everything we went through? After all those times I searched the _universe_ to find you? To _save_ you?”

Shiro’s voice is low, almost plaintive. “Keith…” 

“No, I—” Keith swallows, steels himself. “After Kerberos, I looked for you. I got kicked out of the Garrison, I lived for a year in the desert, and still I never stopped looking for you. And then, after the fight with Zarkon, I did the same. And both times I found you. I saved you. I brought you back from the _dead_ , Shiro.” He’s aware his voice is taking on a jagged edge, but he can’t be bothered to sand it down. “How could I have made myself any clearer?”

“Keith,” Shiro sighs, pained. “Our bond has always been… strong…”

Fiercely, Keith shakes his head. “No. _No_ , don’t tell me that. Tell me what you thought was going on. Tell me something _real_. Don’t make me think I was living in some fantasy world.”

Shiro’s mouth sets in a flat line, his brows furrowing. “I mean…” he looks away, presses his lips together. “I suppose there were times, early on, when I thought perhaps…”

Keith holds his breath.

“Perhaps… your feelings for me were more than those of a protégé for a mentor. But that’s not uncommon. You were so young, and you had so few positive role models in your life, I can see how…”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Shiro thought he had some sort of schoolboy crush on him?

“That’s not what it was!” he nearly shouts. Then, suddenly keenly aware that they’re in public, he hunches low, hissing: “Shiro, I— I _loved_ you. I was _in love with you_. It wasn’t just— just hormones or whatever you’re implying—”

“I believe you,” Shiro tells him, and it’s full of sincerity. Keith swallows down the rest of his protests, shrinking back into his seat. “I believe you,” Shiro says again, even more gently. “I know you, Keith. I know what you’re capable of. How deeply you feel things.”

Abruptly, madly, Keith wants to deny it. To contradict everything he’s said just so he can contradict Shiro, too. So that he can blame Shiro’s rejection on how little Shiro knows him, so that he can feel comfortable behind his armor instead of bloodied and ripped open.

“But you must know,” Shiro goes on, speaking even more slowly now, more carefully, “that I could not… return—”

“I get it.” Bitterly, Keith waves a hand. “It was stupid that I would ever think—”

“Keith.” Shiro splays his fingers on the table, meets his eyes earnestly. “If I ever made you feel as though my intentions as your mentor were less than honorable, I am so—”

“Don’t say it.”

Instantly, Shiro withdraws his hand. His face takes on that solemn cast, the one Keith knows so well. In return, Keith crosses his arms, hunching his shoulders as he looks away. He wants to escape, to run and run, to stuff his feet into plush red-and-white and curl up with a cat and let himself cry while a movie plays so Lance will assume that’s what did it and won’t ask, so Lance will be happy and Keith can forget—

_What are we doing?_

“The clone knew.”

The words clearly startle Shiro. “What?”

“The clone had your memories, and _he_ knew,” Keith repeats, his tone clipped and low, “or else he could figure it out, so how can you say that _you didn’t_?”

The question hangs between them for a long time, long enough for Keith to glance up. Shiro’s expression is a mass of emotion. Troubled. Hesitant. Sorrowful.

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice is grave, his brow furrowed. “When we started Voltron, I… was not in a good place, emotionally or mentally.”

“I know,” Keith says quietly. “The Galra—”

But Shiro shakes his head. “Not just the Galra,” he says, “although they didn’t help, obviously. No, it was before I even left for Kerberos. In fact, it was why I took the mission in the first place.”

The realization dawns slowly but inexorably. The memory of Shiro, wincing through pain, eyeing his hand like it could betray him at any moment. “Your arm.”

Ruefully, Shiro nods. “My arm. I don’t know if you gathered this, Keith, but… I took that mission because I knew I was going to die.”

Keith’s stomach squeezes painfully.

“And I didn’t want to die having accomplished nothing in my life.”

Keith opens his mouth to argue, to say that even if Shiro had never gone to Kerberos, his life would not have been for nothing, but the look on Shiro’s face tells him his protests would fall on deaf ears. 

“It doesn’t matter so much now,” Shiro says, offering a more sincere smile. “I only say this because I think it might help you understand some of the… choices I’ve made. Not just Kerberos.” He sighs again, eyes falling to his robotic arm, floating to his side. He clenches it into a fist, expression hardening. “Even after the Galra replaced my arm… even after you found me, Keith… my hourglass was still running out. And I knew it. I could feel it in my bones. That’s why I knew I had to ask you to lead Voltron when I was gone, as I was sure I would be sooner rather than later.”

“I wasn’t ready,” Keith confesses, looking away. His heart feels heavy with the burdens he’s carried so long.

“No one could be ready for something like that,” Shiro says gently. “But I knew you would grow into it. And in some ways you needed it, Keith. I worried what would happen to you when I was gone. That you would not feel like you belonged anymore. That you would withdraw from everyone else if you didn’t become absolutely indispensable to them.”

“I did anyway.”

Shiro smiles sadly. “Yes, I… I’m sorry. Truly, it was selfish of me, to put that on you. You were so young.”

“I was eighteen,” Keith protests. “Probably nineteen, by then.”

“As I said,” Shiro chuckles, “so young. And I was, too. Too young to be so fixated on dying. But nevertheless I was, and the fact that you brought me back was…” His brows pinch thoughtfully. “…let’s say _unexpected_.”

The word choice seems purposefully delicate, almost euphemistic. It takes Keith a moment to grasp why. When he does, it pierces him like a bolt.

“You’re telling me that you _wanted_ to die!?” Keith bursts out, half-wild. This time he’s heedless of the looks he draws from the people around them. “I should have _left_ you!? Not looked for you!?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Pain pools in Shiro’s eyes. “I’m saying that, war or not, I always knew that I was going to die young. I went _in_ with a death sentence—”

“Sounds like you mean a death _wish_ ,” Keith bites out.

Shiro’s mouth opens again but he hesitates. Stays silent. He does not deny it.

Keith’s heart sinks like a stone. “Shiro,” he pleads. “Don’t tell me you…”

A rueful smile is Shiro’s only offering. “I wouldn’t call it a death wish,” he says slowly, quietly, “but I had no expectation of living into my thirties in my earthbound teaching job, Keith, much less of surviving an intergalactic war. I knew if there came a time where the choice was to sacrifice myself or sacrifice you, _any_ of you, that— that there could _be_ no choice.”

Keith’s chin quivers, his eyebrows twitching. He has to wrench his gaze away.

“I’m so sorry,” Shiro murmurs. “I can tell this hurts to hear.”

“Of course it hurts,” Keith mutters, his voice thick. “To know that you were trying to let yourself die, when I felt like I could never live in a world without you. If you had— If I had _known_ that you—” He cuts himself off, has to grind his teeth to get a tighter rein on his emotions. Takes a deep breath. “It would have been a death sentence for both of us, Shiro.”

Understanding falls into Shiro’s eyes like the setting sun. He looks like his heart is breaking. 

(Well, join the club.)

“Keith, no,” he breathes. “I never wanted that for you.”

“Well, you couldn’t exactly tell me what to do,” Keith drawls, “if you were dead.”

Shiro’s face crumples further. “I was a bad role model to you,” he whispers sadly. “I was cavalier with my own life. I taught you not to value yours.”

“ _You_ were my life, Shiro. You were the only person I had in the world, in the universe—”

“Which is why I wanted you to lead Voltron,” Shiro says again, meaningfully. “So that you would have a team, a _family_ , when I—”

Painful dampness prickles behind Keith’s eyes, spiking his incredulous, fearful anger. “But what about _me_?” he demands, not even caring how selfish it sounds. “Huh, Shiro? How could you leave me behind like that? When you know everyone I’ve ever cared about has only—” His voice shatters, horrifyingly, and he bites his tongue hard to stop himself. The sharp pain distracts from the tears welling in his throat.

Shiro is quiet, his eyes closed as though he’s bracing himself for an unexpected but not undeserved castigation. The expression makes all words evaporate from Keith’s tongue. He feels as though the wind has been taken from him. 

“You were everything to me,” he whispers, horrified to see a warm droplet fall to his lap. He hurriedly swipes at his eyes, praying desperately that Shiro will not mention it. “You were all I had. I couldn’t let you go.”

Shiro doesn’t respond, not right away. Keith thinks maybe he’s waiting for him to look up, but he can barely bring himself to glance up through his bangs. When he does, the sight that greets him makes him freeze.

Shiro is crying openly. His expression is soft, unreadable, chin resting in his folded hands as he gazes at Keith, tears rolling down his cheeks and leaving wet tracks in their wake. 

The sight shocks the tears right out of Keith. He looks around them furtively, reflexively, to see if anyone is staring, before sniffing wetly and rubbing the back of his nose with his hand. “Why are _you_ crying?” he mutters, half-begrudging.

“Oh, I…” Shiro presses his fingers lightly to the corners of his eyes. He smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make it about me, I always do that.”

“Excuse me?” Keith blurts out, incredulous, before he can even stop it. “You do _what_?”

Shiro laughs, waving a hand. “I just can’t watch someone else cry without crying myself, these days. I’m getting soft in my old age.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “You were always a softie, Shiro.”

“Maybe so,” he answers noncommittally.

And in spite of himself… Keith chuckles. It’s weak, unsure, almost grasping, yet he does. Shiro breathes out an answering laugh, just as thin. It disappears into the uncertain air around them.

Eventually, Shiro settles his hands on the table. “Keith,” he says, and there’s that _gentle authority_ voice, the one that Lance loves to imitate in a way that gets Keith’s chest bubbling with giddy amusement. “I am honored to have been there for you. I’m so glad that you let me in the way that you did. There are many things that I would have done differently, given another chance, but I’m sorry to tell you that tapping you to lead Voltron after me is not one of them.” 

All Keith can do is grimace back at him. Shiro’s returning smile is understanding but unabashed.

“I know I seemed old to you then,” Shiro goes on. “It probably seemed like I knew what I was doing…” 

Keith scoffs wetly.

“All right, I at least knew what I was doing more than a teenager,” Shiro retorts, miffed. “But Keith, you have to remember that I was just twenty-four when I signed on to the Kerberos mission, twenty-five when I was told I had to serve as the head of a giant robot that was the universe’s only hope. I was younger than you are now. My prefrontal cortex had only barely fully developed! Twenty-five! I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

“Lance’s age,” Keith murmurs. It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. Warmth rushes to his cheeks. Why did his brain instantly go to Lance? That’s… It’s…

…embarrassing…

All Shiro does is smile and nod. “Yeah. And I never thought I’d say this, but…” He looks around them furtively before leaning across the table and cupping a hand around his mouth. “Lance has his shit together _way_ more than I did at that age. _Lance._ ”

Hesitantly, Keith cracks a smile. He glances at Shiro and away again, feeling as though he’s shed his old skin and he’s still soft and pink and vulnerable until the new one grows in. “So you’re saying it would have been better if Lance had been in your shoes.”

“Now, I wouldn’t go _that_ far…”

Keith chuckles. After a second, Shiro joins him happily.

When their amusement subsides, Shiro stirs his tea, smiling quietly. Keith shifts in his seat, appetite long gone and unsure what to do with himself. He desperately wants both to escape this conversation and for it never to end. He feels like when they push back from this table, he will be pushing back from his entire life since he was fourteen. If he goes by Lance’s estimation, that’s half of his life. And he has no clue what the next fourteen years will look like. They’re hazy in his mind, gauzy indigo and aquamarine.

“Thank you for telling me, Keith.”

He winces skeptically. “Really?”

Shiro nods. “Yes. And…” He takes a deep breath and reaches a hand across the table.

Keith looks at it, hesitating. Then, deciding abruptly, he hurriedly wipes his hot, sweaty hand against his pants leg and slips it into Shiro’s, cool and dry. The gesture makes him want to squirm, but something stronger inside him tells him it’s not yet time to revert to normal. His skin isn’t done hardening yet.

Shiro squeezes his hand, uncaring of the nervous perspiration. “I want you to know,” he says meaningfully, “that I will never abandon you.”

Tears spring into Keith’s tender eyes. Biting his lip, he asks, only half-joking, “Not even when you adopt a mini-me? Keith 2.0?”

“Of course not.” Shiro chuckles and shakes his head. “And now I _know_ you’re spending too much time with Lance. Using humor as a defense mechanism.”

Keith scoffs and sits back, quickly extricating his hand from Shiro’s and shoving it under his arm. “He’s not… _always_ like that anymore…” he mumbles.

Shiro only hums in a way that kind of makes Keith want to shove him, rail at him, make him stop acting like Keith has no idea what he’s thinking because he _so does_ , _Shiro, you’re not subtle!_

But.

Not yet.

Maybe one day they will be in that place—that teasing, ribbing place—but not yet. Keith can already feel that familiar itch taking over, the one that tells him he’s shown enough vulnerability and needs to zip back up again. The one that tells him his skin is almost done regrowing.

He doesn’t know when he’ll feel comfortable in this new skin around Shiro.

“Plus,” Shiro says with a shrug, “this explains why you never liked Curtis.”

“Okay, now,” Keith says, sitting up straight, because this is something he’s wanted to get off his chest for a while. “All of that stuff is not why I don’t like Curtis.”

Shiro looks eminently skeptical. “Oh, really?”

“Really! Shiro, he’s…” Keith casts about for the right word and finally settles on, “ _boring!_ ”

For a moment, Shiro just blinks at him. Then he bursts into laughter. “Keith,” he snickers, “ _I’m_ boring.”

Keith almost reels back. Shiro might as well have slapped him. “What!? You are not _boring_! You helped save the planet—”

“So did Curtis.”

“—and piloted a giant robot—”

“With help. Sometimes Curtis’s help.”

“—and— and—” Keith’s brain is spinning so hard he can’t even catch all the thoughts whirling through it. “—live in the body of a clone of yourself!”

Shiro seems to consider this for a moment. “I mean, does that really make me _interesting_?”

“Yes!”

The noise Shiro makes is deeply unconvinced. “It’s more like a fun fact.”

Keith groans hard, slumping in his chair. He has a brief out-of-body experience in which he realizes the mannerism is straight-up Lance, but he forces himself not to care. It’s how he feels in the moment.

“I’m just saying,” Shiro chuckles, clearly taking pity on him, “I don’t mind ‘boring,’ Keith. I _like_ ‘boring.’ I have had more than my fair share of ‘interesting’. More than ten people’s shares. I think I’ve earned some boredom.”

Keith huffs skeptically, pointedly ignoring how Shiro uses his floating arm ( _not_ boring) to reach across the table and ruffle his hair.

“Yep, I’ve definitely earned enough boredom to last the rest of my life,” Shiro says decisively, retracting his arm to sip his tea. “And so have you.”

***

As at peace as Keith felt hugging Shiro goodbye outside the cafe, the drive home in his Garrison-supplied vehicle is another story. He keeps running through their conversation in his head, turning it over and over like a Rubik’s cube, like somehow he can solve it, make it line up right. Keith has never had the patience for those things, though; always ends up throwing them at the wall.

He wants to throw _this conversation_ at the wall and laugh at it. And he wants to do it with Lance.

God, the shit Lance is gonna say. Lance always has the best Shiro impressions, the most strangely incisive takes. And the fact that Shiro had no idea? This whole time?

“Himbo alert!” he exclaims to no one, jabbing at the radio until it hits that oldies station that’s perpetually playing in Lance’s dented sedan. He barks a laugh in giddy exasperation.

Lance is going to lose his mind.

The lip of Keith’s jacket nearly catches in the door in his haste to slam it upon parking outside Lance’s apartment. He spins away just in time, then nearly trips over the curb.

“Quiznak,” he gasps, and then nearly bursts out giggling. He feels high, his heart pounding in his throat. Like he survived near death. Like he said everything that’s been dying to come out for fourteen years and now he can finally—

Finally—

_Keith, what are we—_

Fuck, he can’t wait to get into Lance’s apartment. Kick off his shoes, slide into those red slippers. Find the old pair of sweatpants that he’s stolen from Lance at this point, curl up on the couch, and—

“Lance!”

His breath catches in his throat. Lance is there—right there! Stepping out of his door, as if he sensed Keith approaching. Did he know? Did he hear the slam of the car door and go to the window to check the street? Did he trip over a step the way Keith tripped on the curb?

Those thoughts are quickly dashed by the surprised flinch of Lance’s shoulders, the tilt of his brows as Keith jogs over to him. Clearly, Keith was unexpected. Well, all the better.

“Keith, hey—”

“I told Shiro,” Keith breathes, in an exhilarated rush. He feels wound tight, bright inside like a star and ready to burst.

Lance blinks, his eyebrows lifted. “Oh.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I told him,” Keith continues, keyed up. He slides past Lance through the open front door to unlace his shoes. “I told him, and he had no fucking clue, and—”

“Keith. Buddy.”

Keith pauses, looks over at Lance. For the first time, he realizes that Lance is fully dressed, no sweatpants. He even has a brown leather jacket half-tugged on, his hair tousled with product. Keith notes a whiff of cologne in the air.

Lance is… dressed up.

Slowly, uncomprehendingly, Keith stands.

“I get that this is a big thing for you, but I actually don’t have time to talk about it right now,” says Lance, cutting his eyes away from Keith’s, down to the boots he’s settling his weight into. “I, uh, have a date tonight.”

It hits Keith like a bucket of water to the face.

Lance—? 

Lance has a—?

He is not equipped for this right now. 

Keith stares at him, shocked. “You have a _date_?”

“Eeyup,” is the flippant response. It has Keith’s arms crossing over his chest.

“I thought you weren’t in a dating place,” he says. It comes out more suspicious and accusatory than he intended, but…! Lance _did_ say, multiple times…!

“So did I, but turns out I am,” Lance replies, and if Keith isn’t mistaken he seems a little… terse? 

Lance, terse? _Lance_?

Keith hunches his shoulders up even farther, watching as Lance very pointedly avoids his gaze. “Since when?”

Lance’s brows pinch but he still doesn’t look up. “What, does it matter when? I just am, okay?” He gives a forced laugh. “Jeez, a dude can’t go on a date these days without getting the third degree…”

Now Keith knows he’s just being purposefully difficult. He huffs, annoyed. “What the hell, Lance? Why are you acting so weird about this?”

Lance lets out a high-pitched noise of protest. “I’m not acting weird! I just have a date, all right?” He pauses, reaching down to tighten the laces of his boots. But… but the laces are only decorative, the boots zip up the ankle, so then why the fuck is he—? “And, like, maybe it’s nerves,” Lance suggests belatedly. “Did you ever think of that?”

It all rubs Keith the wrong way. Gets his hackles up.

“What— You—”

Ugh, why is Lance acting like this? It makes Keith feel off-balance, like Lance is— 

It hits.

“Are you… Wait, are you mad at me?”

That’s gotta be it, right? Lance has been avoiding him all day. It’s the same thing from last night. He’s mad. He’s mad, right?

To his surprise, though, Lance doesn’t throw his hands up in exasperation. Instead, he sighs in defeat. “No, I’m not mad at you…” He lists his head to the side, his lips pursed. “I’m more mad at myself, I guess…”

Keith frowns, awash with confusion. _“What?_ Lance, I don’t— _”_

“Look. Keith.”

Lance’s voice is quiet now, the sharp edge sheathed. He shrugs so his jacket sits squarely over his shoulders, and Keith half-expects him to step into his space but instead he stays where he is. So far away. 

“The reason I know I’m in a dating place again is because… _agh_.” He puffs out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his styled hair.

Keith waits.

“This is a little embarrassing, I guess, but I realized that I was starting to develop feelings… for you…”

Shock runs through Keith for the umpteenth time that day, and this is the one that finally fizzles out his brain. His mouth drops open. His heart throbs in his throat.

“You…” 

He has to stop. So many thoughts are running through his head, none of them fully formed.

Lance has feelings for him? _Lance?_

“But you said…”

_“I don’t know how many different ways to tell you this, but I’m not exactly in a dating place.”_

_“No need to worry your pretty little mullet about me wanting to tie you down, space cowboy.”_

_“And I know it’s been five years, and I know that’s pathetic, but sometimes I feel like… that was my one chance.”_

“Yeah, I know what I said,” Lance says, bobbing his head, “and I know what _you_ said. I know how you feel about Shiro, how he’s The One, how you’ll never fall for anyone else, yadda yadda _yadda_ …”

The snort of amusement is out of Keith’s nose before he can stop it. “Lance…” he starts, not knowing where that sentence might end.

“But I guess I somehow convinced myself that it could happen because we…” He rolls his eyes, squints at the sky. “I mean, we get along so well? Weird to say, I know, but… And— and we have so much fun doing just… just stupid shit. Nothing shit. Watching movies and talking and working on the farm and…” Lance gestures vaguely to Keith. “…and you look like _that_ , so.”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Lance.”

(He keeps trying to start this sentence that trails off into fog, and maybe if he had a minute to think he’d figure it out, the end of that sentence…)

“It’s fine, dude.” Lance waves dismissively. “I get it. Like, from the beginning we both thought this was no-feelings. I broke the rules. Like I said, I’m not mad at you. Really, I’m mad at me because… because this?” He gestures between the two of them, smiling ruefully. “This was really fun. And good. And— and… I’m mad I messed it up, because I’m gonna have to, like…” He sighs, and his voice goes serious, his ocean-blue eyes glimmering sadly. “…not see you.”

Keith’s eyes go wide, the air punched from him. “Lance—”

(And wait, just give him a minute. Just give him a minute, he’ll figure it out.)

“Just for a while,” Lance says quickly. “A couple months, probably. I just need some space for a bit, maybe try to see some other people. Remember what it’s like. That’s why I need to— Oh, and I’m late.” He glances at his phone and lets out a noise of frustration. “Of course. Oh, well. He might as well figure out I’m a mess sooner rather than later, right?” He shoots a weak smile Keith’s way and smooths down his shirt, checks the sleeves. 

And Keith…

Keith feels rooted to the spot, staring as Lance resettles the jacket on his shoulders, flips the collar out so it rests becomingly around his graceful neck. 

(Wait just a… “graceful”?)

“I still want to be friends,” Lance is saying. “I do. But I need some space, all right? For a little while. I’ll get over it, but… not yet, okay?”

A warm hand lands on Keith’s shoulder, and he sucks in a breath. Glances at it. Back to Lance. Lance, who is only an arm’s length away. Lance, who is only an inch taller—just a centimeter or two, really, since he caught up to Keith’s Quantum Abyss growth spurt.

Lance, who is only one impulsive step away from being kissed.

And god, he wants to kiss Lance. He wants it so bad it feels like his ribcage is cracking open.

(Wait a minute.)

“I can tell this is kind of a surprise to you,” Lance is saying. Half-laughing because he’s uncomfortable, the sound making Keith’s insides squirm with a need to reach out. “Don’t worry, dude. Like I said, I’ll get over it. And if you can’t get in touch with anyone else, obviously you can stay the night tonight, I still have the air mattress and I know you were expecting—”

(Wait.)

“But for now I gotta get going. I have a date with Mr. Red Lion. Wait, that’s me. Or you. Uhh, Mr.… _Not_ -Red-Lion.”

(Wait.)

“Hm. Probably shouldn’t call him that to his face. What’s his name again…? Shit, I should know that… Oh well, I’ll check on the way. Sorry to drop a bomb and run but…”

( _Wait_.)

“…Well, you get it. You just did the same kinda thing, after all, to the big man.” Lance cocks his head playfully, gives Keith one last pat on the shoulder, and then he’s turning away from him and—

( _Waitwaitwait he’s getting there wait—!)_

—pushing into the night, and Keith follows him to the threshold and the beginning of that sentence bursts from his lips again:

“Lance!”

Lance turns and looks at him— _looks_ at him with his twilit eyes and sloping shoulders and fucked-up, hand-mussed hair—and…

And god, Keith is so fucking close to getting to the end of that sentence. He can almost taste it, almost knows how it’ll feel scraping over his teeth and tongue, but right now it’s still— it’s not—

Lance tilts his head. “Yeah, man?”

“I’m glad you’re not dead inside,” he blurts out.

It’s not right— not exactly right but—

Lance jerks his head. Half-smiles, then frowns. “Uh,” he laughs uncertainly. “Thanks?”

Okay, so it was kind of weird, maybe, but—

Keith follows it up with: “I’ll probably be here when you get back.” And a single, strong nod.

“O-okay,” says Lance, clearly still confused. “I— It might be late. Don’t feel like you have to wait up.”

“Okay,” says Keith. “Bye.”

Lance’s eyebrows twitch. He turns to go. Stops. Turns back. Gives Keith a little nod of his own, shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, and turns to leave in earnest.

And Keith watches him turn the corner.

And Keith closes the door.

And Keith sits down on the bottom step, stares at his shoes, and thinks.

Thinks about why he can’t fucking come up with the end of that sentence. Why all that runs through his head is Lance’s name. Just Lance’s name, in varying degrees of urgency: _Lance_... _Lance. Lance— Lance!_

Thinks about why there’s a lump in his throat,

why his heart is pounding, 

his mouth parched,

the tips of his fingers tingling with a _need_

_to_

_touch_

_Lance—_

  
  
  
  
  
  


Wait.

  
  
  
  


_Wait—_

  
  
  
  


Lance…

It’s Lance.

It’s just _Lance_.

There _was_ no end to the sentence; _Lance_ is enough on his own. The beginning and the end, and the middle, too. 

_Lance_ is the answer to a question Keith didn’t know he had asked. An answer that lodged itself in his throat and made Keith sputter and cough because his body tried to treat it like a bolus to be swallowed but no, no, it was air to be breathed, to fill his lungs and oxygenate his blood and keep him afloat, make him feel light in a way he never has and never could again without

_Lance._

  
  
  
  


Keith leans an elbow on the step behind him. Lets his head fall back so he’s looking up at the cracked, sloping ceiling of the stairwell. He feels stunned. Carved out like a jack-o-lantern.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, incredulous.

Lance. He wants Lance.

…He wants _Lance_?

When did this happen?

 _How_ did this happen?

Was anyone going to tell him, or was he just supposed to find out himself from Lance going on a date with someone else?

(But a voice inside tells him he knew. He knew, when Lance remembered his favorite beer and always had it in the fridge for him. He knew, when he confided in Lance about Shiro and soon Lance became the person he confided everything to. He knew, when he touched the spiderweb scar on Lance’s back and the possibility of Lance dying for someone bit into his heart like fangs, even if that someone was him.)

(He knew, when telling Shiro his feelings for him felt more like a eulogy than a plea.)

(He knew.)

He knew.

He knows.

And now that he knows, he has to do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs) for the beta read!
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter.


	9. Or Were You Lonely

Keith jerks himself awake to the sound of a muffled yawn and feet on the loud, creaking stairs.

Instantly, he’s bolt upright on the couch. His eyes are bleary from the unanticipated nap, his hair frizzy against his neck. He runs a hand through it, pushing it back. A disgruntled huff startles him, and he realizes that he nearly hit Luna, curled in a ball on top of the cushions. 

“Sorry, Luna,” he mutters.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Lance’s head peeks in the doorway, joined shortly by the rest of his body. On the floor beside the couch, Keith’s wolf perks up, giving a sleepy tail wag at the sight of Lance that Keith feels in his own fluttering heart.

Because god, he looks good. Cobalt blue sweater, brown leather jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder, pants that hug his thighs, and just a whiff of that cologne wafting into the room after him… 

Keith is suddenly deeply annoyed at whoever this person was that Lance dressed up for.

“You didn’t set up the air mattress?”

Keith is still blinking back sleep, aware of little else but the look in Lance’s eyes, bright but tired. He’s seen them like that a thousand times, he thinks; knows them by heart, knows them by the way his ribs resonate with the glitter of them.

“Fell asleep on the couch,” he mumbles.

“Oh. Well, if you want to sleep on the couch, that’s fine, too. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Neither of them moves. Keith knows he should say something but can’t bring himself to. Lance is too shiny right now; he feels ambushed.

“Welp, I’m gonna get ready for bed,” Lance finally says.

 _That’s good,_ Keith thinks, _He won’t look like quite so much, then. _

“You know where all the extra blankets are, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

After a second’s hesitation, Lance disappears from the doorway.

Immediately, Keith realizes he should follow. He’s off the couch and down the hall in seconds, ignoring his wolf’s curious head tilt as he follows Lance to his bedroom. His heart screams in his chest.

“How was it?” he asks, far too loud.

Lance lets out an _eep!_ , his sweater halfway over his head and his eyes wide. He’s wearing a white undershirt that rides up his stomach. Keith wants to drag his fingernails through his happy trail. Wants to snake his arms around his warm, solid waist.

“Jesus, dude,” Lance breathes, “how many times do I have to tell you—”

“How was your date?” Keith asks again, in case Lance didn’t get that’s what he was asking.

Lance gapes at him, forearms still caught in his sweater.

Keith tries to think of what questions Lance would want him to ask. What’s _nice_ to ask. Just to chat. Just to get the conversation going. Then maybe he can sort of ease into the fact that he wants to wake up next to Lance for the foreseeable future.

“Do—” he starts, racking his brain. “Do you think he’s the one?”

Lance’s brows furrow at the same time as his eyes widen, his chin jutting forward. “Do I _think he’s the one?_ ” he echoes incredulously. “How the fuck—? No, scratch that. _What_ the fuck—”

“I think I want to be with you,” Keith blurts out. He’s never been good at small talk.

Lance’s jaw drops, along with his arms, still twisted in his sweater. They land along his legs and hang there oddly. His expression is overwhelmed, uncomprehending. “Keith, what—”

“ _Lance_ ,” and he tries to breathe into it everything that he felt in the stairwell. How it was the answer. The end and the beginning. He steps forward into the room, stopping when Lance flinches, his arms still trapped in that fucking sweater.

“What— Why— _Rrgh_ …” Finally, violently, Lance shakes the piece of clothing from his arms until it crumples to the ground and his hands can flail free. “Dude, what the hell are you _saying_?”

Steeling himself, Keith says, “I want what you want. I want us to be together.”

For a long moment, Lance only stares at him, mouth agape. Then his shoulders jerk with a soft exhale, his eyes fixed on some spot on the ceiling. “You shouldn’t say that to me,” he tells him softly, though there’s a hard edge in the flex of his jaw. “Not after today.”

Keith frowns. Has Lance decided he no longer wants to be with him? Did he never want to? His heart sinks.

Quietly, Keith asks, “How was the date?”

“How was the—?” Lance huffs, drags a hand through his hair. “How do you _think_ the date was? It was _bad_ , Keith! You know why?”

“Why?”

Lance throws his hands in the air. “Because I kept thinking about _you_!”

Despite Lance’s obvious frustration, confused warmth blooms in Keith’s stomach, .

“I couldn’t stop thinking about— about that weird shit you said to me!” Lance’s eyes are wide. “‘I’m glad you’re not dead inside’!? Who _says_ that!?”

Oh. Yeah, maybe it was a little weird, but a lot happened and, well, he is. So, “Well, I am,” Keith says, a little stiffly. “I _am_ glad. I don’t want you to be dead inside.”

“Keith…”

“I want you to be happy.”

Lance’s shoulders slump, like Keith has said something devastating. “ _Keith_.” 

“And you said you had feelings for me, so… be with me.”

Lance bites his lip, eyes glittering in the low light. He heaves a sigh and looks away. “You _really_ shouldn’t say these things to me right now,” he whispers. “I’m… I’m really vulnerable, Keith, it’s not fair.”

Genuine confusion rises in Keith’s chest. “But they’re _true_. Why shouldn’t I say them?”

Lance levels him with a sharp look. “Because only last night you were ready to throw yourself at Shiro just because he had a fight with his husband.”

Keith’s stomach churns. He sucks in a breath, ready to explain. Because that’s right, Lance doesn’t know how it went. He has to tell him—

“Lance, it didn’t— I told him but it didn’t—”

“Yeah, no shit,” Lance breathes, full of frustrated incredulity. “No shit it didn’t work out! You wanna know why? _Because Shiro is married, Keith_.”

Keith squirms, his jaw clenching so hard it’s making his ears ring.

“And shame on me,” Lance goes on helplessly. “Shame on me! Because I thought all those times we talked about it were helping you get over it. Like we said at Shiro’s wedding, remember? Like… like _you_ were helping _me_.” He runs a hand through his hair, huffing. “I mean, didn’t you notice how I started asking you about how you _love_ - _d_ Shiro? Past tense? And you went along with it! You said it, too. ‘Shiro _was_ everything to me.’ ‘My feelings for Shiro _were_ strong.’”

Keith blinks, shell-shocked. Did he really? How long has he been speaking about his feelings for Shiro in the past tense?

“And I thought—” Lance cuts himself off with a wave of his hand, his eyes returning to that invisible spot on the ceiling. “You know what sucks the most about this, Keith?” he says quietly. “Being reminded of… of how fucking stupid I am.”

Keith’s sternum cracks open, just a little bit. “Lance, you’re not—”

“I am, though.” Lance swallows hard, and then chokes out a laugh. “You wanna know how stupid I am? I thought about us _so fucking much_ the past couple months. So much I started thinking about… about the war. About how we got to be by the end. Lance and Keith, Red and Black. Not neck and neck but… shoulder to shoulder. I’d think to myself, like…” His voice breaks, and he tosses his head, like he’s trying to shake it off. “‘Wow, we really trusted each other, huh? Had each other’s backs.’“

“We did,” Keith agrees, not knowing why it feels like a protest.

“And _then_ I’d think about… how sometimes, the things you said to me? They made me feel so… _good._ ” He chuckles darkly, _wetly_. The skin of Keith’s palms burns to touch him. “Like, ‘Wow. He really cared. _Keith_ did, about _me_.’ And now that I know you, I know how hard that is. So I must be…” 

Lance’s face does that thing, that _convulsion_ that makes Keith’s heart drop. 

“I must be _special_.” 

Desperately, Keith’s feet stutter forward. _“Lance—”_

“But I know I’m not. Or— No.” He shakes his head, rolls his eyes at himself. “I know I _am._ Just not to you. And I need that to… not matter. At least not as much as it does right now.”

“But you _are_ special to me!” Keith insists, trying to shove down the terrifying vulnerability. His fingers itch to reach for Lance, as though pressing their skin together will say more than his words ever could. “I— _I_ was the stupid one, not you. Because I didn’t realize until today that—”

Lance’s bitter laugh stops him mid-sentence. Arms crossed, he scoffs, “That’s pretty fucking convenient, don’t you think?”

Frowning, Keith sets his jaw. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replies defiantly. He’s only half-lying.

“I _mean_ ,” Lance goes on, each word wrung through gritted teeth, “it’s pretty _convenient_ that the same day you finally confess these feelings that have consumed you for the past however-fucking-long— _years_ —and get turned down, you ‘realize’ that you actually want to be with the sad-sack moron who went and caught feelings for you, despite _knowing_ you were unattainable. _That’s_ what I mean.”

Keith presses his lips together, his own ire rising. “Are you trying to tell me how I feel?” he asks darkly, stepping forward.

“No…” Lance steps forward, too, just as dangerous. “I’m trying to get you to _think_ for _one fucking second_ about why you might feel that way!”

Adrenaline is jumping, pulsing in his veins. He wants to fight, to lash out, but his mind is a maelstrom right now. He can barely think; all he knows is Lance is close, and that he’s fighting to keep him there.

“I don’t have to think about it!” is his eventual answer. “I know how I feel!”

Fire blazes in Lance’s eyes, mirrored in the sudden flare of brilliant blue as his marks burst into light. The sight makes Keith hesitate, but Lance ignores it as he takes another step forward. “Oh _do_ you?”

And, recovering quickly, Keith matches him. “Yeah!”

“Yeah?”

Jaw clenched, he growls, _“Yes, Lance.”_

They’re nearly nose to nose now, glaring furiously, challengingly, bathed in the blue glow of Lance’s blazing marks. Keith feels a hair’s breadth from punching Lance, or kissing him.

It’s Lance who blinks first. The glow of his markings falters, his expression crumpling as he turns away, pacing a few steps from Keith. The rage has seeped from his voice, leaving behind exasperation, confusion. He tugs at his hair, which stays in spikes where his fingers twist it. “You know what I don’t get about you, dude?”

Keith doesn’t respond; only watches Lance gravely from beneath his shaggy bangs.

“You’re, like, the bravest, most capable person I know,” Lance says, “but there are so many things that you just refuse to do. For, like, _years_.”

“You mean Shiro.” Keith’s voice has a steely edge. It’s not hard to conclude. 

“I mean Shiro, yes, but also cupcake.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Kupcake! Kosmo! Your _wolf_ , Keith!” Lance gestures agitatedly toward the living room. “You’ve had that thing for _years_ and never even named him!? Why, Keith? You can’t really have thought he would ‘tell you when he was ready’.”

There’s a telltale pop and then something cold and wet nudges at Keith’s hand. As one, he and Lance look down to find the wolf gazing up at them, his ears swiveling uncertainly. He whines softly.

The noise seems to siphon some of the fight from both of them. 

Lance’s shoulders relax, his expression mellowing. “Sorry, boy,” he murmurs, offering a hand for the wolf to sniff and then lick. “Sorry for yelling.”

Keith watches them both wordlessly, a tender ache in his gut. “He doesn’t need a name,” he says quietly. “He comes when he wants to.”

Something like sorrow passes through Lance’s face. He looks up to meet Keith’s gaze. “And what if he didn’t?” he asks quietly. “What if one day he just… didn’t want to anymore? You tried and tried to call for him, but he never came?”

The floor seems to fall away, leaving Keith reeling. He breaks Lance’s gaze. “Why would you ask that?” he mutters.

“Because I spent a lot of time with him today,” Lance says, “and you’re right. He comes when he wants to. He’s a semi-telepathic space wolf, but he’s still a wolf. He’s not domesticated. I felt pretty stupid running after him through the park in public, shouting all of his not-names and getting no answer until he decided he’d had enough fun and wanted to sleep.”

Lance gives the wolf a stern look that quickly gentles. He buries his fingers in his ruff and scrubs his fur back and forth in a way that gets the wolf’s tongue lolling.

“And I kept thinking,” Lance says, “‘Goddamn it, maybe this wolf would come when he’s called if he knew what his frickin’ name was!’ And then I realized… that’s the reason someone names a pet. So you can get its attention. So you can ask it to come to you. And if you didn’t name a pet, it _could_ mean the pet didn’t matter… but I know that’s not the case. I know you care about him. So then I thought…” 

Shrinking into himself, Keith waits warily.

Lance takes a deep breath and lets it out. When he raises his face to Keith, his expression is tender. “Are you just… afraid they won’t come when you call?”

His gut wrenches, his vision swimming so abruptly he has to clench his eyes shut. Because Lance said _they_ , not _he_ —not singular but plural—and breathlessly Keith is beginning to grasp the connection. The connection between why he never named his wolf, why he left Voltron, why he never wanted to pilot Black, why until this very day he never, ever, ever told—

“Some things don’t need to be said,” Lance murmurs, “because if they are, it makes you vulnerable. Right?”

Keith is silent.

Lance sighs and stands, relinquishing his grasp on the wolf’s fur. “That’s what I meant. You did this huge thing today. And I—” He bites his lip, his face twitching oddly. “I’m kind of weirdly proud of you for doing it? Even though it was… Well.” He shrugs, shaking his head. “But still. To finally put your heart on the line like that, after years and years, and be turned down… I mean, it just makes sense that you’d need reassurance afterwards. That you’d go for the next best thing.”

It takes a moment for the words to register in Keith’s head. _Next best thing_. He studies Lance’s expression, sad and tired, suddenly so tired. His marks are dull, light snuffed out in resignation.

“What—? Lance, you’re not—” Keith starts, but already he can tell the words are futile. 

Lance avoids his gaze, rubbing self-consciously at his arm. “C’mon,” he chides him. “You spent, what, ten years pining for Shiro? More? I get it. That’s huge, and it would hurt. And… I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be sad, either. But also, right now, I don’t think I can be the one who helps you not be.”

Helplessly, Keith throws his hands in the air. “Well, why not?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows they’re the wrong ones, selfish ones, so he tries— he tries to… “We— It’s like you said, we were helping each other. We were both sad when this all started, and then we… we had fun, right?” he laughs, a little high-pitched, a little frantic at how Lance only looks more heartbroken the longer he speaks. “We had a good time, so why can’t we just keep—”

“ _Because_ ,” Lance insists. “Because I’m not who I used to be, Keith. I can’t bounce back from rejection, hang around and hope. I—” His voice cracks. “I already did that with Allura. I don’t have the energy to… wear someone down anymore.” He cuts his eyes away, to the floor. “I don’t want you to settle for me, too.”

And Keith wants to argue, wants to say that’s not what this is, that his feelings for Lance are separate, and real, and surging within him like a tidal wave. But with the way Lance looks right now, sad and scared, flayed raw, he can’t bring himself to say any of that.

Because what if Lance is right? Other than Shiro, Lance is the only home Keith has on Earth. Is it so insane to think that he would latch onto him subconsciously? Keith isn’t normally one to psychoanalyze, usually bristles at anyone else’s attempt to. But something inside him tells him to absorb it, not because it could be true (although it could, he grudgingly admits), but because Lance thinks it is.

Instead, Keith abruptly points down at his wolf, lying dejectedly on the floor between them. His eyes don’t leave Lance’s. “The wolf’s name is Fido,” he announces.

Lance gapes at him. “W- _what_?”

“His name is Fido,” Keith says simply. “I just decided.”

Understanding begins to dawn. Lance tries to laugh, “Keith, you can’t just—”

“Spot.”

“What?”

“His name is Spot.”

“Wha— Keith— He doesn’t even _have_ spots—”

“Fluffy, then,” Keith says firmly. “Midnight. Wolfie. Whatever, it doesn’t matter to me. If you want him to have a name, he can have a name.”

“Keith, that isn’t the point!” Lance bursts out, but he’s half-laughing. It lifts Keith’s chest, buoying him.

“What _is_ the point, then?” Keith demands, fighting the strange, reeling laughter that wants to bubble to the surface. “Do you want me to go to the park and shout ‘Fluffy’ until I get his attention?” 

A thin, shapely eyebrow quirks. A smile tugs at soft, downturned lips. “You’d look like an idiot.”

“I would,” Keith agrees.

“You hate looking like an idiot.”

“I do.”

That brow lifts even higher. “But you’d let yourself look like an idiot if for some reason that was my criteria for us to be together.”

Keith pauses. He’s not sure how they arrived here, but the truth is…

“…Maybe…” he mumbles uncomfortably.

Lance bursts into laughter. Fido-Spot-Fluffy lifts his head to look at him curiously, and Lance leans down to give him a pet. “Whew,” he chuckles. “Thank god you said ‘maybe,’ or else I woulda been sure I had a Keith impostor on my hands!”

Crossing his arms, Keith hides a smile. Laughing with Lance has become so comfortable that arguing with him is what makes Keith feel off-kilter now.

How could he ever be without this?

He lets himself smile back at Lance, who is grinning at him fondly albeit hesitantly. The low light catches on the tilt of his brow, the shadows his cheekbones, the shimmery line that Keith realizes with a twist in his gut is the track of a shed tear, hidden from him. 

“Lance,” he breathes, arms falling to his sides. “I do want to be with you. You have to believe me.”

Lance’s smile fades. He chews on his bottom lip, measuring his words. “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he says slowly. “Or… that’s not _all_ it is…”

And the way that his eyes skitter away tells Keith that even Lance himself doesn’t know everything that it is, not yet. That this conversation won’t be resolved tonight, perhaps not even tomorrow. The idea of leaving it open-ended makes Keith burn with a frantic need to clutch Lance to him, not to let him go.

Because if he lets him go now, what if he never has him again? What if Lance doesn’t come when he calls?

“Can I still see you?” he blurts out.

Lance lifts his eyes to Keith’s, and the look in their depths has Keith aching between his ribs. “Yeah,” he answers, his voice rough. “Yeah, o’ course… I just can’t right now… with all of this…”

“I get it,” Keith says around the lump in his throat. He draws in a shaky breath. “So… tonight… should I…?”

Lance’s face is a morass of emotion. Sadness. Confusion. Frustration. _Yes, that would be good. No, don’t leave._ His lips part to respond, but no words come out.

So Keith makes the decision for him. He shoves down his desperation and turns on his heel to stride down the hall, his jaw clenched tightly against the roiling emotions. Quickly, haphazardly, he shoves the few things he brought with him into his bag—his datapad (for space), his phone (for Earth)—and slings it over his shoulder. The creak of the floorboards tells him that Lance has followed him and is stationed somewhere behind his shoulder, watching him silently.

He can’t bring himself to look.

Instead, he takes to the staircase, trudging down them in silence with Fido-Spot-Fluffy by his side. Lance follows him still, anxious sadness pouring off him in waves. Or maybe that’s just Keith, his brow deeply furrowed as he pulls his shoes back on.

“Where will you go?” Lance asks, finally breaking the silence.

“Pidge’s,” Keith decides. He didn’t know the answer until exactly that moment. He hopes it’s not a lie.

“Okay,” Lance says, unsure. 

Keith stands, readjusting his bag over his shoulder. Then his eyes catch on them. His slippers. Unbreathing, he bends down to pick them up. 

“Should I… take these with me?” he asks, unable to meet Lance’s gaze. The soles of the slippers are well trod, squished beyond the flexibility of their memory foam, molded perfectly to the shape of Keith’s insole.

“Don’t you dare,” Lance tries to quip, but his voice is thick and throaty. “I paid good money for those. They belong here.”

The words ignite both hope and loss in Keith’s chest. “Do they?” he whispers, frowning at them.

“Hey.” When Keith lifts his head, Lance looking at him intensely, earnestly. “They’ll always be here, okay? I’m not getting rid of them.”

The side of Keith’s mouth lifts. “Even if I spill coffee on them?”

“You spill coffee on that pair, too, mister, and you’re outta luck until the next calendar year.”

They chuckle lightly, uneasily. The joke is gentle, hardly their usual, but it’s enough. And when the laughter ebbs, Keith knows all that’s left to do is…

He replaces the slippers in their spot by the vent, where they soak up the heat in the winter and the cool in the summer, and slowly, resignedly, reaches for the door. He pauses with his palm on the handle, feeling like he should say something, throw one last hail mary. 

No words come to him. No words but, “Lance…?”

Lance meets his gaze. His chin rests in his hand, fingers over his mouth. Above them, his eyes are red and shimmering. “Let me know when you get there, all right?” he croaks, slightly muffled. “So I know you’re safe.”

Wordless, a ball of his own answering emotion choking him, he nods. Then he turns the deadbolt, flips the lock on the handle, turns the knob, and steps out into the cold.

***

The lights are out in every window but one when Keith pulls up in front of Pidge’s apartment building. He’s never been more grateful for Pidge’s insomnia than he is at this moment, jabbing at their doorbell. If not for her typical nightowl routine, he and his wolf would be shacking up in his Garrison-issued SUV on the side of the road.

To his surprise, however, it’s not Pidge who answers the door; it’s Matt. Matt whose head peeks over the banister, his mouth opening with surprise when he clocks Keith through the plate glass door. As Matt pads lightly down the staircase in pajamas and bare feet, his hair tied back in a messy ponytail, Keith has a moment in which to acknowledge whatever dregs of social aversion he has left in him after the emotional rollercoaster that was the last twenty-four hours. 

Leery, he offers an uncertain smile as the door swings open.

“Keith?” Matt says, frowning. “What’s up, man? Is everyone all right? Did something—?”

“No, everyone’s fine,” Keith says, waving his hand to dispel any worries. “I just needed a place to stay for the night. I, uh— Lance and I kind of—”

“Oh.” A relieved smile blooms on Matt’s face. “Yeah. Sure, man.” He steps aside so that Keith and his wolf can cross through the doorway and then closes and locks the door firmly behind them.

The stairwell is creaky and bitterly cold. Keith stares at Matt’s flimsy pajama bottoms, his bare feet. Like he just rolled out of bed, or at least somewhere warm. 

(No slippers.)

“Does Pidge know you’re coming?” Matt asks, his voice hushed as he leads Keith up the stairs. “She’s been asleep for like ten hours already, I think. She’s been pulling a bunch of all-nighters to finish up some work on—”

“No,” Keith replies, a little sheepishly. “I didn’t tell her I was coming. It was kind of… unexpected.”

“Gotcha.” Matt opens the door to the apartment. He’s met with a refreshing wall of warm air.

(Not as warm as Lance’s, but—)

“Make yourself at home,” says Matt, ducking into his room, and Keith realizes that he…

…doesn’t know how to do that, exactly.

Still standing awkwardly in the entryway, he looks around. He could take off his coat; the door to his right is probably a closet. His shoes aren’t wet but would probably track some grit on their scratched-up wood floor, and Matt is barefoot. But that means any existing grit would stick to Keith’s socks, and he got so spoiled with the slippers. Do Matt and Pidge even care about grit? Should he set his bag down on the bench beside him? Normally he carries it straight up to Lance’s—

His wolf nudges at his hand. When Keith looks down, his gaze is inquisitive, his ears against his head in confusion.

“Yeah,” Keith sighs, rubbing a hand over the wolf’s fluffy head. “Me, too.” 

He decides to sit first and go from there. As he steps forward to take a spot on the loveseat, his wolf on his heels, he recalls Lance’s last words to him and pulls his phone out of his pocket. There’s a pang in his chest as he skims their latest texts to each other, lighthearted and easy, joking about their then-upcoming photoshoot. Just above their text chain is his own with Shiro, the one that started them on this road. The weight within his ribs is almost painful.

Matt returns from his bedroom with a neon-green energy drink just as Keith is sending his _made it to Pidge’s_ text to Lance. He throws himself on the couch opposite Keith and gives him a once-over.

“So what’s the deal? You look like you just got dumped.”

Keith bristles at Matt’s words, then bristles even harder when Matt’s expression twists into some caricature of awkwardness, his teeth gritted.

“Oof, sorry,” he says, tugging at his collar like he’s bombing on stage. “Guess I struck a nerve.” He throws back a swig of his energy drink as Keith scowls at his own reflection in the dark window beside him.

And that’s when Keith remembers… Matt Holt…

He doesn’t particularly _like_ Matt Holt.

Matt never exactly struck Keith as an understanding fellow. Smart, sure, but not empathetic. Not someone who feels things especially deeply. Before the war, Keith knew him—not well—while they were still at the Garrison. Recently graduated, a couple years older than Keith but just as scrawny. Always talking a blue streak about who knows what, some bullshit he spouted just to make himself sound clever, but Keith had no clue what he was saying, and wasn’t the true marker of intelligence that you could explain complicated things simply, anyway? Keith was pretty sure it was. 

Matt talked like a teacher. A _bad_ teacher. On speed. 

Shiro liked him, though. Thought he was funny or something, was always laughing at shit he said or did. Well, Keith didn’t think he was that funny. And apparently, neither did Adam, who always just gave a tight, polite smile in the background, while Keith sat awkwardly in the room, wondering if he was being included or not.

And in spite of all of this, Keith, in this moment, is considering unloading on Matt Holt.

This day must have really broken him. He doesn’t think he’s felt this tumbled and raw since…

Well, since this all started, really. Since Shiro’s wedding.

“I’ve had a long day,” Keith finally settles on. It comes out as a grim sigh. 

“ _Tell_ me about it,” Matt exhales, stretching out and slinging his bare feet over the armrest. “I was in the lab from seven to seven, trying to work on this new translation device that’s based on your old Paladin helmets. I’ve had it up to here with this day!”

It’s an easy change of topic. Unfortunately, all Keith can think of is how the last time he was in the Holts’ apartment, Lance let out a trill of beeps and boops on the balcony, running Keith through his internal translator. It coils unfairly in his stomach.

“Yeah, well,” Keith drawls, not ready for the conversation to move on from _his_ pain, “I got turned down today. _Twice._ ” 

Surprise barely registers on Matt’s face. He nods, impressed, his mouth curving down. “Hey, at least you were efficient,” he quips.

Keith frowns as a confused chuckle escapes. “Yeah, true.”

“I think my worst is three.”

Keith blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

“Three people turned me down,” says Matt nonchalantly, holding up his middle, ring, and pinky fingers. “In one day. Of course, that was in high school, and I was trying to find someone to be the back-end of the horse costume I wanted to go as for Halloween.”

Yet another confused chuckle escapes Keith. He’s remembering another reason why Matt always threw him off at the Garrison. It’s because his brain bounces around so much; having a conversation with him is more like watching a game of ping-pong, or maybe trying to catch a leaf midair as it flips and floats and floops away from your fingers. As a teen, it always made Keith clutch his arms around him and clam up, praying for Matt to leave. Now he finds it just kind of… amusing, he supposes, at least in this moment. A welcome respite from the heaviness of the conversations he’s had thus far today, at the very least.

“All right, so, turned down twice in one day, huh?” Matt mutters, feet swinging. He tucks an arm under his head, squinting at the ceiling. “So that’s gonna be Lance… aaaand…” 

“Whoa, whoa,” Keith cuts in. “Why’re you so sure one of them was Lance?”

“Because you’re trying to stay with us instead of him,” Matt answers easily, almost indignant. “C’mon, Keith, I’m a certified genius. It doesn’t take one’a _me_ to figure that one out.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Fine. Yes, one of them was Lance. The other was—”

“No, no, don’t tell me!” Matt waves a hand at him. “I wanna guess.”

Huffing, Keith spreads both hands in disbelief. “Okay?” 

“Hm…” Matt rubs his chin pensively, humming. _“Hmm…_ Coran.”

“What!?”

Matt snickers to himself. “Nah, no idea. I don’t know your life. Who?”

He says it like he doesn’t give a shit whether or not Keith answers him. Like his goldfish attention span will dart to the next shiny thing it sees if Keith doesn’t forcibly keep it on him.

Well, Keith’s had a hard day. He’s allowed to vent to a person he barely knows about the bullshit that’s on his mind at one-thirty in the morning.

“If you must know, it was Shiro.”

He registers somewhat distantly how easily the words leave his mouth. At first he assumes it’s just more evidence of how this day has reduced him to rubble, of how emotionally spent he is that he could so readily reveal something that he concealed so fiercely for years…

But is it, though? he wonders in dull dismay. Or is it simply that that secret is no longer painful or delicate? That he’s no longer protecting an open wound, no longer shielding something against his chest, worried that opening his cupped hands to reveal the flame will cause it to flicker and die, now that it’s already been blown out?

How long had it been blown out before Keith peeked through his fingers to find the wick charred and stiff?

The thoughts churn muddily in his gut. If he were better at self-reflection, if he had given it any thought, maybe he could have—

“Ohh, _Shiro_ ,” Matt chuckles, feet still swinging in time to an inaudible beat. “Been there.”

It hits like a grenade, and Keith is some bombed-out precinct of a war-torn city at this point in the day, but somehow the blast still found something to break. “You’ve _been there_?” he echoes, uncomprehending.

“Ohohooo, yeah.” Matt says it like it’s nothing, like it’s a bit of a laugh. Like he says everything. “I mean, it’s Shiro. Pretty sure just about everyone’s had a crush on Shiro at one point in their lives.”

Something twists inside Keith

“Plus, I mean, we were in close quarters together for, like, nine months on the flight to Kerberos, and then even longer after the Galra abducted us. Shiro was the only human I knew who I wasn’t related to, it was kind of inevitable, ya know?” He shrugs. “Anyway, seeing him again reignited old feelings, and then I told him the next time I saw him, when we were on the Atlas, after all that weird clone business. Good timing, huh?”

But Keith’s brain is still on the part where Matt said he, “ _Told him_? You… you just told him. Right away.”

“Sure. Figured there was no use wondering forever. I got things to do. Shit or get off the pot, right?”

Keith grimaces but hesitantly nods.

“Didn’t work out, obviously, but he let me down easy. No one better to confess your feelings to than Shiro! Am I right?” And he grins over at Keith, like they’re in some club or something.

Well, Keith guesses that’s kind of true. An extremely small club, the membership in which will hopefully remain a secret.

“Yeahhh,” Matt exhales, his foot still tapping. “Then we got drunk and hooked up.”

Keith rockets forward in his seat, his eyelids flown wide open. “You _hooked up_!?”

Not even looking, Matt flaps a hand at him. “Oh, we were both shitfaced, it barely counted.”

Keith stares. He wonders, not for the first time, if Matt Holt is actually the one who’s part alien, not him.

Slowly, uncertainly, he sits back into the loveseat.

He doesn’t want to ask.

He _won’t_ ask. He _won’t_.

…

But goddamn it, he has to know.

“…How was it?”

If the question is strange, Matt seems not to think so. He screws up one eye, pursing his lips, and finally settles on: “Solid B-plus.”

And that’s… 

Huh. 

Keith sits on that for a moment. There are so many other questions he could ask, so many other questions he’s puzzled over on restless, sleepless nights since he was a teenager, but…

Maybe this is all he needs.

“I fucked the clone,” he volunteers.

Matt raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? How was that?”

Keith summons all of his nonchalance, all of his indifference, all of his composure to shrug and say, like it’s just another hookup story, the way he wants it to be, “I’d give it an A.”

“Ah, dammit.” Matt snaps his fingers. “Guess you got me beat, then.”

“Guess so.”

“Am I hallucinating?”

Keith and Matt both turn to the doorway. Pidge is standing there, her hair a tangled cloud as she scrubs at her eyes, her glasses shoved up on her head.

“What the hell are you doing here, Kogane?”

“He and Lance broke up,” Matt tells her. Keith glares at him, but Matt is unrepentant. “She woulda found out sooner or later. It’s easier if you just choose _sooner_.”

“You _broke up_?” Pidge repeats, squinting at him.

“No,” says Keith, although it sounds like half a lie as it comes out. “We weren’t even dating. How could we break up?”

“He said bitterly,” Matt narrates.

Keith sighs while Pidge continues to wipe her eyes with a small fist. She pulls her glasses out of her frizzled hair to settle them over the bridge of her nose and studies Keith through them. “Whoa,” she says, blinking owlishly. “Well, you certainly _look_ like you got dumped.”

“That’s what I said!”

“I did not get dumped!” Keith insists, lifting his hands in exasperation. “We _were never dating_.”

“He got _rejected_ ,” Matt explains, as Pidge passes through the dining room into the kitchen.

“By Lance?” she asks, out of sight. “That’s a surprise. I thought they were gonna go at it on our living room floor after that many Jell-O shots.”

“It’s super fun having you talk about my love life like I’m not even here,” Keith drawls pointedly.

“Well, you _weren’t_ even here until, like, thirty minutes ago,” Matt points out. “We’re not used to including you in these discussions.”

“You have discussions?” Keith asks, affronted.

“Hardly,” Pidge sniffs, returning from the kitchen with a glass of water. “More like random musings.” She sidles up to lean on the back of Matt’s couch. “Anyway, fill me in. Lance kicked you out?”

“No,” says Keith.

“Pretty much,” says Matt.

“Mm,” says Pidge.

“He did _not_ kick me out!” Keith insists, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Ugh, you two are impossible...”

“Says the guy who showed up in the middle of the night in search of our hospitality,” Matt drawls. 

“Yeah,” agrees Pidge, sipping her water. “We open our doors without a second thought for our good friend Keith, and all we ask for in return is a little clarification. But do we get a thank you?”

“No, nothing. Not even ice cream.”

Keith’s shoulders slump. “Ugh. Fine. Yes, I left Lance’s because I got turned down. Sort of.”

“That’s still not a thank you,” observes Pidge.

“ _Thank you, Holts_ ,” Keith enunciates, holding both hands out to them. “Is that sufficient!?”

“It is adequate,” she says with a smug nod. “So… you asked Lance out and he said no?”

Keith screws up his mouth. “I mean… not exactly…”

“But broad strokes,” she says, clearly allowing no room for Keith’s shades-of-gray explanation, “you want to date Lance, you told Lance you want to date him, and yet you are still not dating Lance in this moment. Correct?” 

Keith frowns, replaying the words in his head. “Yes,” he finally admits. “Broad strokes, yes.” 

“And now you want our advice.”

 _“No._ I do not want your _advice_. _”_ Keith does not take advice. Advice is anathema to Keith. However… “But if it would make you happy to offer me advice, then you may do so,” he allows graciously.

The Holts turn to each other. Something passes silently between them, transforming both of their expressions momentarily into masks of gut-churning mischief. A sense of foreboding falls over Keith.

They turn back to him, their faces neutral again.

“Well, what does Lance like?” Matt prompts. “What kinds of stuff does he do when he likes someone?”

“What doesn’t he do,” Keith scoffs, rolling his eyes. Warmth rises in his chest as he thinks of Lance. “He’s always doing shit for other people. Buys my favorite beer when he goes to the grocery store. Got me these slippers to wear in his house, ones that are just for me. And he’s been doing this thing where he tries to get me to cry at movies...”

Matt and Pidge exchange another look. “It sounds like he already likes you,” Pidge says.

“He does,” Keith says, downtrodden. “That’s the problem.”

His glum declaration is met with a moment of silence. “Well,” says Matt, “that makes things a little harder.”

“You just have to convince him that you’re serious, then,” Pidge pipes up. “Go out of your way, since he probably thinks he’s just convenient for you. Like you’re just picking him because he’s the next best thing.”

“He’s _not_ though!” Keith bursts out, frustrated. “He said that, too. Why the hell do people keep saying that?” 

“Uhh, because Shiro shot you down and you immediately—”

“I _know_ why people keep saying that,” Keith snarls at Matt. “It was a rhetorical question.”

“Calm down, Heathcliff,” Pidge says, rolling her eyes. “We’re trying to help you. Also, I already overheard you talking about this, but I still wanna say: _Shiro_?”

“He fucked the clone,” Matt says unhelpfully.

“I _know_ , what the fuck!”

Keith’s sighs heavily, feeling overwhelmed. “Ugh, please, Holts, can we focus? That’s in the past, Lance is…”

“Like, the future?” Pidge’s devious smile tugs at Keith’s memory, a half-forgotten fever dream, another time when Lance chose Keith and Keith chose Lance, but did it the wrong way.

He pushes it away for now; he already knows he’ll be dwelling on many memories in the sleepless nights that lie ahead of him. Instead he groans, hoping to convey even one-tenth of the burning frustration he feels at this moment. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I mean…” Pidge raises an eyebrow, looking smugly to Matt. “It’s obvious, right?”

Matt nods. “Yup. Clear as day.”

Keith lifts his hands in exasperated supplication. “Well!?”

“You have to prove to him that he’s _not_ the next best thing!” Pidge says.

“Yeah, show him the way you feel about him is just as strong as you felt about Shiro,” Matt agrees, nodding. “Stronger!”

Keith bites his lip. “But I don’t… I don’t know if it’s _stronger_ than I’ve ever felt for Shiro, I just know that right now I—” 

Pidge holds up a hand. “Okay, well, definitely don’t lead with that.”

Keith huffs, crossing his arms. “I’m just being honest! I’ve been in love with Shiro since I was fourteen. Until today I didn’t even know I wasn’t anymore! It’s all…” He sighs, massaging his temple. “…very confusing.”

Pidge and Matt exchange yet another of their patented _looks_. If he thought talking to Matt alone was enough to give him a headache, he really hadn’t reckoned for both of them at once.

“Did you ever think that maybe that’s why Lance said no?” Pidge asks, a little more gently than usual.

Keith sighs, pursing his lips. “Yeah…” he admits. “I get why. I just… It’s frustrating, okay!?” He slices a hand through the air, gesturing wildly. “I know how I feel! I just can’t— It’s not a mystery to me! I want to be with Lance. I can’t explain it better than that. If I didn’t want to be with Lance, I wouldn’t have told all you people I want to be with Lance!” He’s starting to feel a little unhinged, honestly, talking himself in circles. He wants to tear his hair out.

He can’t see the other two with his eyes clenched shut, but from the silence he’s almost certain they’re sharing yet another look.

“Well… I think your best bet is to work through it systematically—” 

Keith can’t help but scoff. Of course Pidge would say that. But when has Keith ever done anything systematically? He’s mostly just hurtled from one impulsive decision to the next.

Pidge crosses her arms, unamused. “You have two certified geniuses at your disposal for advice, and you’re rolling your eyes.”

“You keep calling yourselves that,” Keith grumbles. “I feel like I’m in an Apple store.”

Matt cackles at that. Even Pidge gives a grudging, sardonic smile. “I said _certified_ , all right? There’s, like, a whole thing you have to do. I won’t bore you with the details.” She waves her hand dismissively as Keith regards her with skepticism. “Anyway, it’s a problem, just like any other problem. And what do you do with a problem?”

Belatedly, he realizes she’s not asking him rhetorically. He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Fight it?” he suggests.

“ _No_ , dummy,” Pidge says. “You _break it down_. Lance has feelings for you, but doesn’t trust you when you say you have feelings for him. Why not?”

Keith sighs, fidgeting under her gaze. “Uhh… because he thinks I’m not serious about him?” he says uncertainly.

The Holts stare back at him. “Why’re you asking _us_? Don’t you know!?” Pidge asks.

Throwing his hands in the air, Keith exclaims, “ _You’re_ the geniuses!”

“Yeah, and we’re helping talk you through it! Just because we’re geniuses doesn’t mean we know everything!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what it means, actually!”

“Spoken like a true non-genius,” Matt snickers, holding up a fist for Pidge to bump.

Keith dissolves into groans. “I hate you both. So, so much.”

“Cool, I’ll remember that next time you show up at my apartment at two in the morning,” Pidge quips. “Which reminds me, I’m supposed to be hibernating.”

“And I’m supposed to be getting back to work!” Matt chimes in, cracking his knuckles. “Those sick beats aren’t gonna craft themselves.”

“And what am _I_ supposed to be doing?” Keith mutters bitterly.

“Problem-solving!” Pidge replies brightly. “Just remember the break it down, Keith. I’m sure you can figure out what to do.”

Grimacing, Keith bids both of them goodnight, accepting the pillow and mismatched fleece blankets that Pidge dumps over him. It’s not until the Holts are both ensconced in their respective rooms and Keith is curled up on the couch, his wolf breathing heavily under the coffee table, that it hits him.

Everything.

He feels a swoop in his stomach, like he’s cresting a wave and falling down the backside of it. Then the backs of his eyes begin to prickle, his face to crumple, and…

He slaps a hand over his eyes, the sides of his mouth pulled down in an ugly grimace as his body shakes.

How did this happen?

How did he let this happen?

Caustic thoughts careen through his head, carving him out, leaving behind them aching futility, the sensation that he’s struggling desperately to keep his head above water while a whirlpool drags him below. He tries to watch the thoughts go by but they’re tugging at his limbs, weighing him down like concrete. Thoughts of _alone_ and _forever_ and _no one could ever how could you think anyone could_ wracking his body until his abs are twitching and he has to draw his knees up to his chest.

It’s silent, his breakdown, and at the end of it he feels hideous and wet, twisted and wrung out like a rag. His wolf nudges at the elbow he’s hiding his face in, and he gives him a grateful pat. 

When the overwhelming tide subsides, he breathes out, long and shuddering.

This is the feeling that he’s been fighting all day. This desolation. 

His phone buzzes. Sniffing hard, he pulls it to his face, squinting against the bright screen.

**Lance**  
thanks for letting me know ur safe. night, keith

He reads it over impassively. The words, clearly chosen carefully, rattle hollowly in his chest. Somehow he feels both better and worse.

He levers himself up from the couch and pads to the bathroom to blow his nose and splash his face with cool water. Pidge and Matt’s bathroom is messy and unfamiliar in comparison to Lance’s, with spatters of dried toothpaste on the mirror and someone’s underwear hanging over the shower curtain rod. One of the lights above the sink has gone out. Keith thinks he would never have noticed these things until he got used to cleanliness, until Lance scolded him for spraying toothpaste everywhere when he brushed too vigorously and for squeezing from the middle of the tube.

That’s when Keith realizes he left his toothbrush at Lance’s.

The feelings hit him all over again.

He slumps over the sink, resting his elbows on the porcelain. His hair falls in his face, sticking to his wet skin.

He thought he’d cut himself adrift the night of Shiro’s birthday. It turns out all he’d done was tie himself tighter and tighter to the ground. The last thing he wants to do is float away again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise: actually, it's angst! 
> 
> total chapter count had to get bumped again but 11 will be the final number!
> 
> thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs) for the beta read!
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter.


	10. Looking For Yourself Out There

The late morning light spills butter yellow over the peeling burnt sienna paint of Lance’s front door. 

Keith barely slept last night, kept awake by unfamiliar street sounds, the dull bass seeping through Matt’s bedroom door, and the absence of Lance’s soft, warm breath on the back of his neck. With no idea when (or if) Pidge or Matt would get out of bed, Keith made his exit surreptitiously, as soon as it was light enough, the germ of a plan sprouting in his mind.

_What does Lance like? What kinds of stuff does he do when he likes someone?_

Well, Keith has some idea.

He lifts a fist to knock, his heart pounding in his chest. As soon as he hears the slow, answering creak of the stairs, it becomes clear to him just how idiotic this idea actually is.

It’s stupid. 

He _knows_ it’s stupid.

But then again, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?

The door grinds open, and Lance peeks out.

Keith’s pulse quickens at the sight of him. He looks like he slept about as well as Keith did, his nose red and dry, the skin under his eyes thin and wrinkled. His ruffled eyebrows lift as soon as he lays eyes on Keith.

“Keith? You’re— what’re you—?”

He opens the door a little wider to take in Keith. And what he’s holding.

“These are for you,” Keith mutters, holding out the bouquet reluctantly.

Lance blinks at the flowers, a mass of color that Keith has no names for. He makes no move to take them. “Dude, what—?”

“Your birthday is July twenty-eighth,” Keith tells him. “I learned it because… because you said that’s something you do when you date someone. And your favorite flowers— well, I had no idea what your favorite flowers were, actually. So… I went to a florist.”

He looks away, frowning as heat creeps up his neck. Lance is still just staring at him.

“A-at first I thought blue flowers,” he mumbles, “because it’s your favorite color. Then I thought red because, uh, because we were both Red Paladins. And then the woman told me there are flowers that go with different birthdays? And said a whole bunch about, like, astrology stuff, and I thought, ‘Oh, yeah, like the stars, that works,’ and she showed me this,” and he extricates one hand awkwardly so he can point to one of the little pom-pom blooms, “like, yellow-orange flower and I thought it, uh, reminded me of you…”

He flicks his eyes to check Lance’s reaction. He’s still uncharacteristically silent. Keith isn’t used to this dynamic—him rambling and Lance just letting him. It has him even more on edge than he was going into this… this romantic gesture.

That’s what this is. Unmistakably. Ugh.

Lance’s expression is unreadable, blank. The flush of Keith’s neck goes hotter, like he’ll start perspiring beneath his V-neck soon. He looks away again, chewing his lower lip.

“Go on.”

Keith jerks his head back up. An exhausted, fledgling smile is hatching on Lance’s face, encouraging. He leans against the doorframe, nodding to the yellow-orange flower.

“That’s called a marigold, by the way. Why’d it remind you of me?”

The way he says it makes it sound so _cutesy._ “Because they’re bright,” Keith grumbles, scowling at the biggest marigold, front and center, like it’s giving jazz hands to the audience. “And _loud_. And look like they’re happy all the time.”

 _The way you should be_ , he doesn’t say, his face burning.

Lance gives a quiet chuckle. “You don’t have to sound mad about it.”

“Just take them.” He shoves the bouquet at Lance, who accepts it with surprising gentleness. “This was stupid,” he mutters, reaching a hand back to tug at his ponytail, his hair greasy from lack of shower.

“Nah.” Lance buries his face in the flowers, sniffing. They’re not particularly fragrant—Keith knows, they smacked him in the face his whole way down the sidewalk—but Lance still smiles on his inhale. “They’re, uh, really pretty, man. Thank you.”

Keith is surprised by the satisfaction curling in his stomach, draining some embarrassment from his face. He can’t deny that the way Lance looks right now is its own reward: beautiful and summery, surrounded by the blooms with sunny freckles dotting his nose. His marks could be loose petals that landed on his cheekbones and clung to his tawny skin. When his eyes meet Keith’s, it’s through a spray of black lashes, the Aegean blue deepened beside the cobalt thistles. It pierces Keith like an arrow.

“Is this you trying to woo me?” Lance asks softly.

Keith swallows hard. He squints at a cloud skating past above. “U-uh… I guess you could say that…”

Lance hums. “Flowers, though…? Doesn’t sound like something you would do, honestly.”

“Yeah, it was… because of what you said about when you were dating people. After, um, Allura…”

Lance falls silent. When Keith glances to him, Lance’s eyes are a deep, sad blue framed by the butter yellow of the petals.

“Keith…” he sighs. His voice already carries a rejection.

Warily, Keith meets his gaze from under his shaggy bangs.

The angle of Lance’s brow speaks heartbreak. “Keith, I love these,” he says, his words heavy. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful. But… I asked you for space.”

Keith’s stomach sinks. Right. He— Lance _told_ him, and he—

Belatedly, he nods. “Fuck, I… I understand,” he says, wanting to kick himself. “I’ll… give it to you. For real this time.”

Lance smiles sadly. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” He gives an ineffectual wave. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’ll just…”

His head is jerking here and there, feeling like he’s being pulled in so many directions when really there’s only one way to go.

“I mean, you know how to reach me if you need to. I’ll leave you alone. Sorry again.”

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and strides away as quickly as he can, his shoulders by his ears.

“Oh, uh— Keith—!”

He freezes. Slowly, reluctantly, _hopefully_ , he turns back.

Lance is still hanging out the door, lips chapped and parted in the chill morning air; his gaze flicks from Keith to the bouquet cradled in his arms and back again. Then he takes a step, another, jerky and arrhythmic, and then he’s jogging to Keith.

Pulse racing, Keith nearly stumbles backward. It occurs to him that Lance is going to shove the unwelcome bouquet into his arms, and honestly he’d rather run away than have it as some kind of grim souvenir.

But Lance’s steps slow, his hand reaching into the flowers and tugging free one of those orange blooms, a marigold, long-stemmed and still damp. “Here,” he murmurs, holding it out to Keith. 

The color in his cheeks can’t be from the very short jog, Keith thinks as he dumbly accepts the flower.

“As a thank you,” he says, giving a lopsided shrug. “Or something.” 

“You don’t need to thank me…”

“Then as… a reminder.” He smiles. “Since I have the full bouquet, you need something to remind you, too.”

“Of you?” Keith looks at the flower, bright and cheery. “I don’t think I’ll need any help, to be honest,” he confesses.

“Well, humor me, will you?” Lance chuckles, and before Keith can react, he’s ducked forward to press his dry lips to Keith’s cheek. 

He pulls away almost immediately, red-rimmed eyes sparkly and a little wide, like he can’t believe he dared. Keith stares at him in mute surprise.

Swallowing hard, Lance gives a wavery smile. “I’ll, uh, see you, space cowboy,” he stammers, and gives a sheepish wave as he retreats back to his open door, shooing a curious Luna inside with a sweep of his hand.

Keith doesn’t let himself touch his tingling cheek until Lance’s door is firmly closed.

***

It’s oddly terrifying, being asked for space. Keith supposes it’s because he’s so used to being the one asking.

Returning to the Blade is strange. He feels helpless, anxious for reassurance, for affirmation. It’s something he’s never particularly needed, he thinks. Or rather, he hasn’t needed it from people he does not consider _his_.

Now the person who he most wants to be his is off-limits.

Instead he spends his days in the company of his wolf and his mother. Despite their stint in the Quantum Abyss, his relationship with Krolia has never been effortless, more like an uneasy camaraderie than a mother–son bond. Keith is well aware that he set their boundaries, and alternates between feeling grateful toward his mother for respecting them so unyieldingly and resenting her for the same reason. He knows that this is not entirely fair. Yet the ambivalence persists.

In the movements following his confession to Shiro and his rejection by Lance, he finds himself seeking her out increasingly often. If she's surprised, she doesn't show it. She accepts his proximity wordlessly, passing him supplies to pack in empty crates or vials to fill with rations, and they work in relative silence.

“You are no longer going to Earth on your days off,” Krolia observes one afternoon, as they package blankets for villagers whose homes are being rebuilt. She does not look at him to study his reaction, only continues packing.

“That’s right,” Keith agrees, just as neutrally.

Silence.

Again, Krolia breaks it: “I hope that no harm has come to you there.” Her voice is low and somewhat stiff, devoid of emotion.

Slowing his motions, Keith realizes that she is trying to ask him how he is. To offer him an avenue to talk. She must know that her presence is somewhat of a last resort, given the nature of their relationship.

It's a guilty thought. 

“No, no harm,” he tells her, after a moment. “Only some… difficulty.”

“Oh?”

Keith huffs in mild amusement. Her concern is clear—just as clear as her unwillingness to pry into his personal business. He has made it obvious how little he wants her there in the past.

Then again, in the past, he wanted no one there at all. Things have changed a lot in the last few years. It occurs to him once more that it all started at Shiro’s wedding.

“With… a boy,” he finally concedes.

“Oh.” Her tone is knowing.

“Multiple boys, actually.”

“… _Oh_.”

Keith chuckles. “Yeah. Oh.”

“It seems a complicated situation.”

“You can say that again,” Keith mutters.

“Ah.” She smiles nostalgically. “This is an Earth phrase I remember your father using often. It means I have used understatement.”

He can still hear it in his dad’s twang. _You kin say that agin._ Sadly, he nods. 

“The situation is causing you much strife,” she gathers.

“Pretty much.”

“You have much to offer a chosen partner, Keith,” she says soberly. Her words are kind, albeit a little sterile. “I pray that should you ever decide to tie yourself to someone, they will celebrate you for all that you are and can be.”

A strange emotion steals through his chest. A squirming warmth that he usually felt only from… well, from Shiro, weird as that sounds. It’s what he felt when Shiro would tell him he was proud of him, without the attendant ache of unfulfilled desire. 

“Mom,” Keith says. The word comes from him suddenly, still strange between his teeth.

Krolia’s head snaps up, her ears alert.

Hesitantly, he asks, “Did… did you ever think it was weird that I never named the wolf?”

Her ears twitch in confusion. “Your wolf,” she repeats. “Did your teammates not give him a name? Kosmo?”

“Yeah, but I never used it. Even in my head, he’s just ‘my wolf’.”

“Is it unusual on Earth not to name an animal? Your father kept chickens, when I first met him. They had no names.”

“Companion animals usually do,” Keith tells her, already feeling tired from the effort to explain. He regrets bringing it up. “But I… You know what? Forget I said anything…”

Silence returns. Keith can tell from the stiffness of her movements that Krolia suspects she offended him. He doesn’t know how to tell her that sometimes the emotional strain of attempting to bridge the chasm between them overwhelms him, makes his tongue slow and heavy in his mouth. 

“I did not think it strange, no,” she says eventually. “I assumed you did not want to grow attached.”

_Are you just… afraid they won’t come when you call?_

Keith presses his lips together, discouraged. “But I did anyway,” he says quietly. “I still grew attached. In spite of that.”

“Yes,” Krolia agrees.

“I… don’t like to be attached,” Keith confesses. “I prefer to be alone.”

“Yes. I fear this was my influence.” A tinge of mourning creeps into her voice. “Both my disposition and my… absence.”

“Yeah,” Keith sighs. “Probably.”

She pauses at that. They rarely acknowledge her leaving, though it hangs between them like a scythe.

“It is not hard to be alone,” she says gently. “Loneliness, however, is. And fear of loss, even while surrounded by loved ones, is its own kind of loneliness.”

Keith frowns down at the blanket he’s folding. Her tone is tender, but still a dark thorn inside him wants to snarl at her, tell her _it’s_ _her fault he’s like this_. It twists sourly between his ribs, bubbling under his tongue.

He takes a breath and tries to soothe it away. He knows she knows. Knows she feels guilty. Knows yelling at her would do nothing to assuage the pain, would only create more.

“You’re saying I need to put myself out there,” he finally says. The joke falls flat.

“No, I am saying I will be here whenever you need me. So you need not fear losing me a second time.” Her ears lower modestly. “I’m afraid Galra comforts are sparse in comparison to human ones, but you are my son. Wherever I am, you will always have a home. I will make sure of it.”

That warm glow rises in Keith’s chest again, up into his throat to overtake the sour taste lurking there. The blanket swims in his vision. Because it’s not just Krolia’s words that bubble up in his memory. 

It’s a purposely begrudging Pidge: _We open our doors without a second thought for our good friend Keith…_

It’s an earnest Shiro: _I want you to know that I will never abandon you._

And it’s Lance, it’s Lance, god, it’s Lance: _They belong here. They'll always be here, okay? I'm not getting rid of them._

Dear god, he wants it to be Lance so fucking bad.

But if it’s not, if Lance is not his home, the way he already feels like he is… he will not be without one.

***

Life goes on.

At this point, Keith shouldn’t be surprised about it. After all, he made it through Shiro’s wedding, which he thought was the end of the world. Nevertheless, he’s amazed by how quickly time passes him by without seeing or hearing from Lance. Keith is determined not to be the one to reach out first; he learned his lesson. Instead, he focuses on work. Kolivan asks him to head a project for a planet that Keith is completely unfamiliar with, which is exciting. It keeps him busy, which is essential.

Another thing that shouldn’t surprise him: the fact that half the reason they’re so busy might show up unexpectedly, striding down the hall of the Blade ship, chatting animatedly with Acxa.

Lance is here.

Lance is _here_.

It stops Keith in his tracks.

Then he remembers. Today’s the day Lance is officially presenting his ideas for their campaign—not just his suggestions for the Blade, but the real deal. Keith knew the Earth date of it—had seen it marked on Lance’s calendar enough times—but forgot the universal one.

And now it’s here.

Now _he’s_ here.

“Lance.”

The name escapes before he can bite down on it (apparently that moment on Lance’s staircase really loosened it from his throat), and goddamn it, it’s loud enough to draw attention. 

Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s just standing in the middle of the hall, like he’s going to demand some sort of toll from them in order to pass. That could be part of it, too.

Regardless, Lance and Acxa cut off their conversation at the sound and turn toward an unbreathing, unmoving Keith. Fortunately, Lance’s reaction to seeing him appears something like pleasant surprise.

“Oh. Keith.”

His halting tone must betray the strangeness of the interaction. Acxa’s head swivels back and forth between them.

“Hey, man.”

“Uh, hi.”

Silence.

“I had better find my seat in the conference room,” Acxa announces abruptly. Keith can’t decide whether he’s relieved or annoyed. She shoots Lance a small smile as she brushes past. “Tell Veronica I look forward to seeing her again, all right?”

“You got it,” Lance calls brightly after her. “That’ll make her _week_!”

Acxa’s smile grows almost imperceptibly as she passes Keith.

And then it’s just the two of them. Keith and Lance.

Well, Keith and Lance, and all the other Blade members and maintenance staff roaming the halls. But Keith only has eyes for the man before him, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.

After a stretching silence, Lance gives a tentative, lopsided smile. “So… long time no see.”

The smile doesn’t fully reach his eyes, Keith thinks anxiously. Doesn’t crinkle the skin beside them.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You asked for space, so…”

“Yeah.” Lance is just as quiet, his words just for Keith in the busy hallway. He runs a hand through his hair, shaggier since Keith saw it last. “Gotta say, never thought I’d have to ask Keith Kogane for space.”

Keith’s heart flutters at his tone. It’s playful. Teasing. He offers a small smile in response.

Lance’s grows in answer, like a bud beginning to bloom. “I mean, when you give someone space, you give someone _space_ ,” he goes on, letting a hand land on his hip. “Like, _literally_. Outer space!”

 _I would give you all of space and time if it meant you would let me love you_.

The thought is a fierce and sudden squall. Keith’s stomach swoops in alarm, his heart battening down the hatches. He almost has to catch his breath, it hits him with such force.

He’s never used the word _love_ for anyone but Shiro. Even in his own head. 

He tries to broaden his own smile, tries not to let on about the storm that just swept his feet from under him. “I mean… you had a point,” he says. “I wasn’t listening to you. You didn’t want flowers; you wanted time to think without me, um… brooding over your shoulder.”

Lance’s grin falters. He opens his mouth and then shuts it again when Antok passes. The Galra doesn’t even acknowledge them—could very well not see them at all, with his mask, although Keith doubts Antok misses much of anything—but still Lance takes Keith’s elbow to pull him out of the flow of traffic. It sends a dumb thrill up Keith spine, a lightning crack in the storm inside his chest.

Once they’re along the wall, Lance looks furtively up and down the hallway. Keith watches him warily.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low. Lance’s hand still rests on his forearm, warm even through the Blade suit.

Lance sighs. “It’s… nothing, really, I guess,” he says, “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve, uh…”

And Keith has been here before—

_Keith, I’m seeing someone._

_Keith, I have to show you something. Do you think he’ll like it?_

—and his stomach starts to sink, a hard knot of horror plunging straight through the squall of desperate longing in his ribcage.

Lance withdraws his warm hand from Keith’s arm to fidget, trying to find the words to turn Keith down. “I’ve done some thinking,” he says haltingly. “Like— like I wanted to. And, uh… There’s not really an easy way to say this, I guess, but—”

“Just cut to the chase, Lance,” Keith interrupts bluntly. His heart can’t handle the fumbling. “I’m only going to assume the worst.”

Lance snorts. “Interrupting his own invitation. Classic Keith.”

Keith’s dumb heart throbs with disbelief. Breath catching, he meets Lance’s dark blue eyes, flush with emotion. Embarrassment. Playfulness. 

_Hope._

“What?” Keith breathes.

Lance cocks his head, spreading his hands helplessly. “I… I don’t need any more space? I don’t think? And also, I… want to hang out again. A-as friends? For now. I— If _you_ want to,” he interrupts himself, eyes wide. “Obviously. You have a lot going on, and I don’t want you to, like, go out of your way. I mean, just because I said I want to hang out doesn’t mean that _you_ do—”

“I do.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, but he can’t care with the relieved smile that bursts to life on Lance’s face. 

“Oh. Good,” he chuckles. “I was hoping you—”

“Yes,” Keith interrupts again. Heat rises into his cheeks immediately. He’s so fucking eager, it’s embarrassing.

Lance seems not to care. “Awesome.” His grin falters quickly, though, turning to an unsure frown. “Um, but… in the interest of full disclosure, I need you to know that I’ve been, um, seeing people.”

“Oh.”

“It’s nothing serious,” he says quickly. “And I’m not trying to _make_ anything serious. I’m kinda trying to phase it out, actually, but I’ve just found it to be, um, really helpful? Weirdly? Therapeutic, kind of, now that I’m not comparing everyone I meet to Allura, and—”

“Lance,” Keith says gently, and Lance’s mouth shuts, his nose wrinkled. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me an explanation. You don’t owe me _anything_. We’re not… We were never…” He sighs, running a hand up and down his arm. “You know what I mean.”

“I think so…” Lance’s eyebrows pinch together. “You sure?” 

“Yeah, I mean…” Keith shrugs. “I’m not exactly jumping for joy, but if it’s helping you…”

Lance nods, his expression still uncertain. “It is. It’s giving me a lot of… clarity.” He sighs and squares his shoulders, fixing Keith with a determined look. “Can I tell you something? It might be kind of TMI.”

Keith screws up his face. “Um, if it’s about someone you’re seeing, I don’t think I’m—”

“No!” Lance’s eyes crinkle up with laughter as he shakes his head. “God, no, that’s not— Okay, that _would_ be TMI.” He scrubs a hand down his face, still smiling strangely, through the discomfort of the situation. “No, I— it’s about therapy.”

“Oh.” Keith blinks. Lance has always been open about therapy, but Keith doesn’t know the etiquette surrounding the subject and has never asked any follow-up questions, just made vague noises of support and hoped for the best. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Our whole friendship is kind of built around TMI, so…”

Lance laughs probably too hard at that. The situation has them both jittery and nervous. “True, true. Okay, so, um…” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth briefly. “I’ve been talking to Brenda about this, which won’t come as a surprise to you at all. But she agrees that the space has probably been good for me. I just… I’ve never dated someone I was this close with, before…”

The statement hangs there between them, and Lance lets it. His eyes are on Keith’s, searching, asking him to understand.

And Keith does. His eyes widen.

Seeing that, Lance swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing noticeably.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, although Keith didn’t ask anything, not out loud. “Yeah. Someone who, if it didn’t work out, if we broke up, I don’t know if I could…” His face convulses, and he tears his eyes away.

Keith’s chest aches.

“I mean, you helped me get over her,” Lance whispers. “Who would help me get over you?”

Keith still hasn’t caught his breath when Lance’s eyes flick back to his, shy and unsure. Sincere.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I know that’s a lot, but… I’ve already had to recover like that once, Keith. I don’t know if I could do it again. Not after the last couple years. Not with you.” 

A lot of things rush through Keith’s head. Uncertainty how their future together would pan out. Fear that he could cause Lance such pain. Indignation that Lance would think that he would in the first place. He doesn’t know how to put words to any of them.

“Like I said,” Lance goes on heavily, “I tend to put my own expectations onto others. And my expectations have changed drastically. Now that I’ve been thinking of you in _that_ way, Keith, I just—” He waves a hand erratically by his head. “—keep thinking of all the ways it can go bad! It’s scary!”

Silently, Keith nods.

“Like, really fucking scary!” Lance laughs, high-pitched and breathy. “But… I want to face it.” He offers a lopsided smile. “I wanna try to do this differently from how I’ve done things in the past, because that hasn’t worked for me. So I wanna try to be better. If you do.”

Keith meets Lance’s gaze. It’s tentative but determined, like Lance is extending a hand for Keith to take.

Inside of himself, he reaches out.

“I do,” he says quietly. “I really do.”

***

Lance’s presentation goes well.

He shows some mockups of websites and social media profiles, all featuring copious photos of smiling alien children, rebuilt hospitals and community centers, and, most embarrassingly, Keith.

Keith knew he was a major part of Lance’s campaign. He has been since he first started venting to Lance about the difficulty the Blade was facing. But it still makes him squirm to sit in a conference room with his coworkers—including stupid Moshek—while everyone studies promotional images of him gazing into the sunset with determination, or smiling gently but confidently into the camera.

Still, despite Keith’s personal awkwardness, the presentation seems only to reinforce what an asset Lance is to their team. Kolivan asks him to come to his office following the meeting so they can “discuss further,” and Keith agrees to walk him there.

As the other attendees filter out, Keith stays in his seat, pretending to consult his notes while he waits for Lance to be ready.

“Do you want to see the pictures we took?”

The question startles him so hard he nearly knocks over his bottle of water. “Huh? W-what?” he stammers, frantically righting the glass before it spills over his datapad.

When he looks up, Lance is watching him with bemusement. “The pictures we took. Do you want to see them?” 

Keith frowns, his eyes flicking back to the screen where Lance’s marketing campaign was projected mere minutes ago. “I-I thought the ones you showed were the…”

Smirking, Lance lifts his own datapad and pokes at it. “I’m just gonna send ’em to ya, okay? Don’t wanna keep them all to myself.”

Keith nods wordlessly, eyes sweeping over Lance as he stands beside him. This close, he can smell him: warm citrus and spice. It reminds him of chilly nights, fleece blankets, arguments about thermostats.

“Is it winter on Earth?” he blurts out.

Lance blinks. “It’s early March,” he says. “Still cold. Why?”

Keith can feel the heat rising into his cheeks, but he makes himself say the words anyway. “You just smell like you do in winter.”

To his surprise, color spreads in Lance’s face, as well. He looks away smiling. Keith feels strangely proud of himself.

Keith forgets about the pictures until he’s going to bed. He picks up his datapad as he’s crawling under the covers and sees **1 new email -- Lance McClain**.

The pictures are hard to look at, yet Keith can’t look away. He simultaneously wants to get them printed out and framed, and have them expunged from the digital universe.

First of all, they look _good_ together. Lance is handsome, of course, and Keith knows he’s not bad-looking, but they both have some glow about them, some sincere, shared happiness that shines in their eyes.

Second, and much worse, is that very first picture they took, the one when Keith wasn’t ready. Instead, the camera caught him gazing at Lance. The look on his face is soft, naked affection laced with something hesitant, unsure. He didn’t even know his face could be that transparent. 

How was he so obviously fucking gone for Lance that a camera could pick it up, but he, Keith, could not? It’s embarrassing, honestly. It makes him want to delete the picture from the fucking galaxy.

Lance, for his part, is smiling into the camera, but there’s something in his face, too, something bare and almost unrefined. It’s an expression that Keith has seen on Lance before, but it takes him a while to place it.

Then he remembers. Remembers late nights in Lance’s farmhouse bedroom, waiting for him to get back from the bathroom. Remembers strolling through his room in his apartment, seeing what things made the move and where they ended up. Remembers the vanity.

It’s the same expression that Lance wore in that picture with Allura.

It’s… awkward.

Keith stares at it, the pad of his thumb running over the outline of Lance’s smile. Is it awkward, he wonders, or is it nervous? Is it the feeling of incredulously cradling something you’ve wanted for who knows how long in the palm of your hand and being terrified you’ll break it?

Is it the same as what’s written on Keith’s face, when he looks at Lance?

***

Lance’s front door is locked.

Lance’s front door is locked, and no matter how many times Keith bangs on it, he doesn’t hear the telltale sound of Lance’s feet on the steep, creaking stairs. 

Huffing, he checks his phone again. No answer to his multiple texts, even though Lance should be expecting him. He sighs and shoves it back in his pocket. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem, but the day is unseasonably sweltering for April, and he has raw fish in the grocery bags hanging by his wrists.

Finally, he sets his jaw. His wolf wags his tail expectantly when Keith looks down at him. “Welp. Let’s get in there, huh, boy?”

One bright white flash of winking-in-and-out-of-existence later, plus fifteen minutes, the oven is preheating, the fish has been caked in panko, and Keith is carefully but fiercely slicing the ends off the asparagus.

“I mean, why wouldn’t they just chop the ends off at the store?” he mutters to his wolf, curled up on the floor. “Or, like, when they harvest them? They choose where to break them off the stalk or whatever, right? Just don’t harvest the ends, if we’re not supposed to eat them!”

He gives his wolf a pointed look. It is returned with bored skepticism.

Keith sighs as he returns to his chopping. “Lance would probably know the answer. He would tell me if he were here. But first he’d let me rant for five minutes about it, just so he could laugh at me later.” He snorts, his heart swelling. “Jerk.”

He sweeps the asparagus ends into Lance’s compost. His next step is to toss the stalks in olive oil and an assortment of spices. He pulls the little shakers down from Lance’s spice rack one by one but can’t for the life of him find the black pepper. Frustration growing, his eyes scan the kitchen before finding the grinder on the little two-top. It’s sitting next to the salt shaker, both in the shadow of that old, familiar vase. 

Instead of juniberries, today it presents a bouquet of orange marigolds.

Keith tries to ignore the way his chest lightens, but he decides it’s all right to smile a little as he tosses the asparagus. His wolf is the only other one in the kitchen, after all.

He makes short work of the preparations and sticks everything in the oven. He has no clue when exactly Lance is going to be home, but they can always just warm it up, he figures.

The sound of the heavy door being shoved open has his chest filling with buzzing excitement. His wolf lets out a happy yip and is gone in a heartbeat, his disappearance punctuated shortly by a surprised shriek from the stairwell.

In the kitchen, Keith whirls around, suddenly desperate to busy himself with something. He settles for the dishes, the clamor serving to stifle the sounds of Lance making his way down the hall.

“Keith?” He hears it faintly over the splash of the dishwater.

“Y-yeah!” he calls awkwardly over his shoulder, still scrubbing. “Sorry! You weren’t here and I had fish from the grocery st—”

“Holy _shit_ , it’s Keith Kogane!”

The unfamiliar voice has the bowl slipping straight out of Keith’s soapy hands and plunking into the sink. He whirls around, heart pounding, to find Lance standing sheepishly in the entrance to the kitchen. Next to him, peering around the doorframe with starry eyes, is a trim, young, fashionably dressed guy Keith has never seen in his life.

“I can’t believe it’s Keith Kogane,” the guy breathes. “Holy shit, holy shit.”

“Uh…” Keith stares, his forearms still drenched. “Who—?”

“Keith, this is Cody. Cody, Keith.” Lance grimaces apologetically. “I-I thought you were visiting tomorrow, dude,” he says, his tone dripping contrition.

The guy—Cody—seems not to notice. He steps through the door and strides right up to Keith, seizing his wet hand and giving it a hard shake. “I can’t believe I’m meeting _the_ Keith Kogane,” he whispers, smiling wide. His teeth are small but perfect, like a dolphin’s.

“H-hi…” Keith says, returning the handshake.

“A-are you a fan?” Lance’s tone is high-pitched, semi-frantic. He sounds younger than he has in years.

“Hell yeah I’m a fan!” Cody exclaims, relinquishing Keith’s hand. “I had your poster up on my wall!”

Keith and Lance share a look. Lance’s expression is clear as day: _I’m so sorry. This is mortifying. Do not engage. _

Slowly, Keith turns his attention back to Cody. “…What poster?”

Over Cody’s shoulder, Lance slumps dramatically. _Ya had to ask!?_

Keith hides a smile.

“The promotional one that you did for the war!” Cody says. “I almost joined the Garrison because of you, but then I heard you dropped out… One sec, I have something— well, this is kind of embarrassing, but I actually worked really hard on it…” He tugs his phone out of his pocket and starts scrolling.

Lance chuckles nervously. “Hope it’s not, like, a shrine to Keith or anything…”

“No, no, nothing like that. Ah, here it is!” He holds up his phone to Keith’s face so that he has to shift his head back and squint.

It’s a picture of Cody, looking even younger than he does now, with a group of friends on what must be Halloween, because Cody is in costume.

A Red Paladin costume.

It’s helmetless, but other than that the home-made armor is astoundingly accurate. Cody’s hair is longer, falling around his neck in silken wisps, not as thick and messy as Keith’s. His eyebrows are fake, glued on and shaped to be bushy and unkempt. Completing the look is the pose: arms crossed over his chest, face set in an unflinching scowl.

“Wow.” Lance, sidled up behind him, whistles low in Keith’s ear. “That’s Keith all right.”

Keith scowls at him to match the picture, but Lance’s expression is one of open, almost childlike confusion. Like he got lost in a department store and is trying to find an adult. 

In spite of himself, in spite of the _situation_ , Keith smirks. It’s not every day that Lance McClain flails in a social setting.

“Did you make it yourself?” Keith asks politely, because he’s living for Lance’s face right now. “It looks really good.”

Lance’s jaw nearly drops. Keith can practically read his thoughts: _Keith!? Giving a stranger a compliment!?_

“Thanks,” says Cody with a smile as he tucks away his phone. “I mean, my mom helped me. It’s kinda cringey, I guess…” He rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “You were just, like, so cool, and the fact that you’re part Korean also… It just meant a lot to me when I was a teenager.”

And that’s so nice, so heartfelt, that Keith is about to say something sincere like, _Aw, I’m glad,_ when the gears start turning. 

He cocks his head. “…How old are you, Cody?”

“He’s twenty-one!” Lance bursts out. When their eyes turn to him, he tries to lean nonchalantly on the table, which is just slightly too low. He ends up straightening and awkwardly landing his hands on his hips. “Uh, I mean, according to the app he was twenty-one when we met, sooo…”

“Still twenty-one,” Cody confirms brightly. “Turn twenty-two in September. Libra Sun, Leo Moon—”

“So you met on an app,” Keith says calculatingly. His eyes flick between Cody, nodding avidly, and Lance, nodding apprehensively. “You must have been excited to find the profile for the former Blue Paladin.”

At that, Cody snorts. Keith raises his eyebrows, while Lance stares at him incredulously. 

“ _Excuse_ me!?”

“I don’t think the chopped liver is allowed to speak, Lance,” Keith says wryly. Lance’s jaw only falls farther open, and Keith decides the indignation on his face is worth every moment of this very strange interaction.

Cody’s eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh, _no_ , I didn’t mean it like that!” he says quickly, waving a frantic hand at Lance. “I just meant… Well, honestly when I saw your picture I thought you were catfishing me.”

“Catfishing!?” Lance squawks.

“And then you were so late to our first date, I thought for sure you were gonna ghost me. Like, it figured. I was _this_ close to tweeting at the show from the restaurant if you had taken any longer.”

Keith snorts. He knows why Lance was late; he was busy telling Keith how he felt about him. Scrutinizing, he gives Cody another once-over. So this is the guy that Lance was seeing?

Well, he certainly has a type.

“Must have been quite a shock when the real Lance McClain walked through the door,” Keith says. “Late, as usual.”

Lance gives him a flat look.

“ _Ohh,_ yeah,” Cody laughs. “I nearly choked on my drink. But clearly I kept my cool enough to get a second date with—” 

“Cody, didn’t you have to go to the bathroom?” Lance cuts in, and it’s obvious even to Keith the reason behind it.

Cody’s face falls slightly, but he hangs onto his smile. “Oh. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I just got so distracted. I mean.” He grins again, gesturing as he reaches the doorway. “Keith Kogane!” And he scurries off to the bathroom, leaving Keith and Lance alone at last.

They stare at each other.

Keith gestures to himself. “I mean,” he says, “Keith Kogane.”

Lance nearly collapses, his face twisting in some unreadable mixture of embarrassment, contrition, and frustration. “Dude, I’m _soooo_ sorry,” he breathes, draping himself over the kitchen island. “So, so, so, _so_ sorry. We made plans like weeks ago to go to this farmer’s market thing, I totally forgot about it until today but I couldn’t really get out of it because he paid for the tickets and I wanted to chat with some farms to pass around my contact info, _plus_ I thought you were coming _tomorrow_ —!”

Keith snorts. “Relax. It’s fine.”

Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. “It _is_?”

“I mean, it’s a little weird,” Keith admits, looking away, “and kind of annoying, because I wanted it to just be us.” He glances back surreptitiously to note the way Lance’s face softens. “But… he’s leaving soon, right?”

“Right,” Lance says quickly, nodding. “Yes. Absolutely. And this was the last time I was gonna see him, anyway. I mean, I completely forgot we were even _supposed_ to—”

“Then whatever.” He shrugs and allows a smirk to rise to his face. “Plus, it’s always nice to meet a fan.”

Indignation overtakes Lance’s face, his mouth opening to retort, when Cody reappears in the doorway.

“Okay, I have to ask,” he says. “What’s Shiro like?” 

Before Keith can reply, Lance cuts in: “He’s great. Cody, didn’t you have somewhere you needed to get to?”

Keith’s eyebrows want to lift. It’s far blunter than Lance has ever been, as far as he can recall. Cody seems to realize it, as well. His smile falters a little but he recovers quickly nonetheless, giving a nod.

“Oh, sure,” he laughs. “Yeah, you’re right, you guys clearly have plans. I’ll just—”

“I’ll walk you to the door,” says Lance, stepping forward. “C’mon.”

“Pleasure getting to know you, Cody,” Keith says, smirking when Lance glares at him from the door.

“Same. Wow,” Cody says, shaking his head. “Still can’t believe I met Keith Kogane. Keith Kogane said it was a pleasure getting to know me!”

“It’s a wonderful life,” Keith drawls. It’s truly difficult not to burst into laughter with how hard Lance scowls.

The creaking floorboards carry both of them away and out of Keith’s earshot. He checks on the food and finds it essentially ready. Perfect timing on Cody’s part, he has to admit.

As he’s removing the baking sheets from the oven, Lance reappears in the kitchen, coming to lean against the counter and watch Keith assemble the meal.

“He’s gone,” Lance announces. “I let him down easy, but you might wanna prepare for some internet gossip about us having a torrid love affair. I think he’s on YouTube.”

Snorting, Keith continues to plate. He has no clue what he’s doing, aesthetically speaking, so he just tries to make sure everything gets on the plate without falling or breaking apart. Hopefully it tastes good.

“So…” he says.

Lance seems to instantly sense the mood. He holds up a hand, eyes raised to the ceiling in preemptive exasperation. “Don’t even start.”

Keith shrugs innocently. “What? I liked him.”

“Ugh, you’re starting…” With a sigh, Lance turns to the sink.

“He seemed like a fine, upstanding young man.”

“Ughhh…”

“I mean, clearly you have at least a _physical_ type…”

Lance shoots him an unamused look. “Don’t know how you can say that. Pretty sure Cody’s not part-alien.”

“Despite his method of socializing tonight,” Keith quips.

“That sounds suspiciously like starting,” Lance replies indignantly, “which is something I believe I specifically asked you not to do.”

Keith lets himself lean against the counter beside Lance, watching him try to busy himself with the very few dishes remaining. His smirk feels sculpted into his face; he couldn’t wipe it away for all the quintessence in the universe.

“Lance.”

“What.”

“Did you fuck a _fan_?”

The dishes clatter wetly as Lance slumps back in frustration. “Oh my _god_ ,” he groans. “I did not know he was a _fan_ , okay?”

Keith grins. “Not denying it…”

“And I did not fuck him!” Lance protests, waving a soapy finger in Keith’s face. They make pointed eye contact for several long seconds—Lance glaring, Keith smirking—before color creeps into Lance’s face and he turns away. “Although he may have tried a rookie combo when we saw a movie…”

Keith bursts out laughing.

“Shut up!” Lance says, cheeks red. He flicks water at Keith, making him flinch backwards. “You’re the worst. Bad kitty!”

“I can’t believe you fucked a fan,” Keith snickers, wiping the droplets from his face with the back of his hand. 

“I didn’t!”

“A _fan_!”

“I didn’t _know_ —!”

“And not even of _you_ , of _me_.”

Lance freezes, staring out the window ahead of him. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I just realized,” he says, eyes wide, “Cody and my niece have a lot in common.”

Keith fucking _cackles_. “New team stinks,” he quotes.

“Ugh,” Lance groans.

“Old team was _wayyyy_ better,” they say together, and then Lance’s frustration melts away. Laughing, he slings an arm around Keith’s neck, reeling him in so their temples touch. After a second’s hesitation, Keith allows himself to loop one of his own arms around Lance’s waist. His heart pounds at the boldness of the simple gesture, but Lance doesn’t pull away.

“He’s a super nice guy, I’ll have you know,” Lance says, huffing a little over Keith’s cheek.

“Mm, yeah, he seemed it,” Keith concedes. Lance is so close.

“Which means he’s not my type.” Lance turns to grin, mere inches away. “I think I like ’em kinda mean.”

Keith can’t fight the blush rising to his face. “Dinner’s ready,” he blurts out, well aware his tone is too loud, probably too harsh. He drops his arm from Lance’s waist and steps away from the easy closeness.

Lance only laughs, unoffended. He wipes his wet hands on a dishtowel before turning with a flourish to take up the plates and set them on the little dining table. “Holy shit, dude, this looks awesome,” he gushes, pulling out Keith’s chair for him before taking his own seat. “I love salmon. And asparagus! It’s like my perfect meal.”

The words stir up a pleased, tongue-tied glow in Keith’s belly. All he can think to say is, “…Good.”

For a few moments, they eat in comfortable quietude, though Lance seems unable to sit still. He takes a few bites and then fumbles with his phone, connecting it to his wireless speaker to stream some low music. 

Takes a few more bites and then stands to rummage in his drawers for a book of matches, which he uses to light a candle on the table. 

Sits back down with a settled sigh. 

Immediately stands back up to go turn off the lights, so they’re cast in darkness but for the flickering candle flame.

“Is this all right?” Lance asks from the doorway, his fingers still on the light switch.

Keith looks up, his mouth full and his plate nearly empty. “Uh.” He swallows. “Yeah?”

“Okay, cool.” Lance slinks back over to his chair. “Just… for the ambience.”

And that’s when Keith is struck once again by the fact that he is some kind of situational idiot when it comes to Lance, because it took him until just that moment—Lance sitting across the table from him as they share a candlelit meal—to realize that this is a _date_.

How did he not know that? He’s the one who cooked, for Christ’s sake.

Or maybe it wasn’t really a date until now. Maybe Keith brought half of the date, by cooking, and Lance, by putting on music and candlelight, brought the other half. Maybe this is Lance picking up the baton and running with it.

Regardless, it is most certainly and irrevocably a date now, which makes Keith approximately one kabillion times more nervous.

Lance clears his throat loudly, taking up his fork. “Thanks so much for cooking for me, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah,” Keith says dumbly. He’s almost done with his plate, but Lance has barely touched his. Should he stop eating? 

“Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in ya, Kogane.” Lance’s tone is forcibly breezy. “I assumed you were a dry-cereal-three-times-a-day kinda guy.”

“I mean, I can follow a recipe.”

“Still, though.” Lance’s smile softens. “This is… really nice.”

Heat creeps up Keith’s neck. He shoves the last bite on his plate into his mouth, and his eyes cut away to land on the vase, the spray of orange-red blossoms cast bronze in the firelight.

“Those are, um.” He swallows. “Marigolds… right?”

When Keith glances back, he thinks he sees a flush across the bridge of Lance’s nose. 

“…Yeah,” Lance admits. His eyes are on the bouquet, as well, skating over the pom-pom flowers. “I… liked the ones you got me. They’re so cheerful to look at compared to…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. They both know what he means.

“I’m still sorry about that, by the way,” Keith says quietly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no-no-no, _I’m_ sorry, I just—” Lance cuts himself off with a rueful sigh. “It was hard enough asking you to leave the night before, you know? And then you show up with flowers…”

Keith smiles hesitantly. Part of him—a really, _really_ big part—still can’t believe he did that.

“I just… I was feeling extremely weak,” Lance confesses. “And I needed to be strong, so I think I put my foot down a little harshly, asking for space again.”

Awkwardly, Keith shrugs. “I dunno,” he says. “I don’t think you should feel bad about that. It’s good to set boundaries, or whatever.” It sounds like something Lance’s therapist would say, which makes him feel extremely square, but still he says it.

Lance snorts. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. I definitely needed it, the space, so I’m glad I asked for it, in the end." He drums his fingers on the table nervously. "Plus, I… also asked for space for… for you.”

Keith raises his eyebrows. Lance is studying him quietly, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Keith’s. 

Hunching his shoulders, Keith says, “You don’t—”

“—Know what I need, Lance, so shut your quiznak?”

Keith’s jaw clicks shut as he takes in Lance’s cheeky grin, still slightly tentative, like he’s unsure he’s allowed to tease. After a moment, Keith rolls his eyes. “Pleased with yourself?”

“Extremely.”

Keith sighs. “Typical Lance.”

To his surprise, Lance’s smile bursts into a full-body, shoulder-shaking laugh. The skin beside his eyes even crinkles, and Keith’s stupid heart melts. He gives a shy chuckle himself as Lance’s laughter trails off and he looks at Keith. Looks at him like he wants to pull him across the table and hold him close.

“Honestly,” Lance says, stabbing a piece of asparagus, “I needed to make sure that you saying you wanted to be with me wasn’t some… temporary madness. I mean,” he laughs self-deprecatingly, “it’s obviously madness. Just didn’t want it to be temporary.”

And… Keith frowns.

He doesn’t know exactly when he realized Lance’s bravado masked this kind of vulnerability—before the war ended, certainly. Over the past years, he’s become even more intimately acquainted with Lance’s anxiety and self-doubt. Even knows that he’s traditionally been a trigger for it. 

But _when_ he realized doesn’t particularly matter, in the end. All he knows is that he needs to try to set it right. As much as he can, anyway.

“Lance,” Keith begins, measuring his words, “I was in love with Shiro for almost half of my life…” 

Across the table, Lance’s smile falters, turning pensive and serious. It makes Keith want to reach out to take his hand, but he… he doesn’t know how to do something like that. Maybe he’ll learn with Lance, one day.

Instead, he goes on, “You know that. I told myself that it was destiny, that sooner or later we would be together, but I never did anything to make it happen. I never said anything to him because I was afraid of ending that feeling…” He draws his bottom lip between his teeth. “The fact that I told you as soon as I knew I felt that way… it means something.”

After a moment, Lance nods, still solemnly studying him. “…And what does it mean, exactly?”

“It means…” Keith exhales helplessly, unsure if he has the words to explain properly but knowing he needs to try. “It means,” he starts, still searching. “It means that— that my feelings for you aren’t so fragile and fearful that even just the idea of telling you makes me want to hide.”

Silence falls. When Keith looks up, Lance is watching him, his chin resting in his hands. His eyes reflect the flickering candlelight. Keith feels each glowing lick and dance of the flame like the patter of his pulse.

“That day, when I finally did tell Shiro,” he continues, swallowing, “the conversation wasn’t just about… _that_. It was everything. Why he chose me to pilot Black after him. Why he put himself in so much danger. He told me about how he was feeling back then, how he was sure he wouldn’t survive the war. I never realized what an effect that had on the decisions he made.” He takes a breath. “I also never realized how much built-up resentment I had towards him, for making those decisions. I kind of let him have it, actually.” 

Lance’s eyebrows are raised now. He’s listening intently. 

“It wasn’t even about my romantic feelings for Shiro, in the end,” Keith admits slowly, unsure if he’s making any sense. “It was more a… catharsis. I thought he was all I had for the longest time, and he kept trying to leave, and I— I knew it, in a way. But I kept not letting it happen. I _couldn’t_. I wanted things to stay the same, I didn’t want them to change, didn’t want _myself_ to change. To— to grow.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I was afraid of Shiro not always being so important to me, I don’t know, but… I couldn’t stop that from happening. It happened. The wedding was just when it really became clear that… I was going to have to move on. Someday. No matter what. And when I went to tell Shiro how I felt that day, I just didn’t realize yet that… I already had.”

Lance’s hand falls to his, fingers sliding into his palm. So easy. Like breathing.

Keith meets his gaze again. The black flames of Lance’s pupils draw him in. 

Softly, Lance smiles. “Thanks for telling me.” 

Keith doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just shrugs one shoulder, chewing his lip.

“So... you’re saying you still feel the same way?” The slant of Lance’s eyebrows etches vulnerability into his face. “About me.”

Swallowing hard, Keith nods. He huffs a laugh as he gestures to their plates, Lance’s only half empty. “I mean, I cooked you dinner,” he says. “I’ve never done that for anyone else.”

“Really?”

Keith is surprised that _Lance_ is surprised. “Yeah. Who else would I cook for?”

“I… I don’t know…” Lance’s eyes widen, sincerely at a loss. 

Keith smiles lopsidedly at him before looking down to their joined hands. He brushes his thumb over Lance’s knuckles. He wonders when was the last time he held someone’s hand for this long without wanting to pull away.

“Keith.”

Lance’s tone is oddly solemn. It makes Keith’s heart sink, his breath catch. When he glances over, Lance is looking back at him seriously as he extricates his hand from Keith’s

“I have to tell you something.”

He swallows. Nods. This is the moment when Lance tells him his feelings have changed. That he doesn’t want to be with Keith, not in that way. That he won’t come when he calls.

God. The thought already hurts as bad as it used to with Shiro. More.

“I…” Lance takes a deep breath and half-laughs on the exhale. “This is weird to say, but it’s kinda been running through my head so I’m just gonna say it…”

Keith braces himself. “Okay…”

“I... wouldn’t die for you.”

Keith jerks his head in surprise. Lance is watching his reaction with a nervous but determined set to his jaw.

“What?”

“I wouldn’t die for you,” Lance says again, more firmly this time. He swallows. “I… I have… strong feelings for you. Like, really strong.” He flicks his eyes away bashfully. “But I wouldn’t die for you.”

Keith blinks, his eyebrows furrowing slowly.

“I-I think it’s important for you to know,” Lance goes on. “I know that’s what love is to you, and— and sure, if we were somehow back on the battlefield—knock on wood—and I saw something coming for you, I’m sure I would throw myself in front of you because that’s just what I do, apparently, but… but what you told me about, with the Shiro clone? I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t let myself die because you were gone. I’ve been in that position before, and I know that I wouldn’t.”

Keith pulls his hands into his lap. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I know you now, dude,” Lance says, almost chuckling. “I know you have really strong opinions about stuff like this. Not like I don’t, but… I dunno, I just don’t want you to think my feelings for you are something that they’re not. And if it’s a dealbreaker that I wouldn’t _die for you_ , then I figured I should put it on the table now.”

Keith stares at his thumbs. His knuckles are still warm where Lance’s fingers rested over them. “I don’t know what to say.”

Lance nods. “Yeah, I get it. There’s not exactly a Hallmark card for when someone tells you a suicide pact is off the table.”

Keith snorts. He furrows his brows. He thinks.

He thinks.

Would he die for Lance?

He… honestly doesn’t know.

It’s strange. His feelings for Shiro felt like fire, something that could burn him from the inside out until he was consumed by this urgent, screaming pain that could only be soothed by the balm of being near him, the salve of Shiro’s kindness.

But with Lance… his feelings are like water, like the sea that he once imagined standing on the edge of and thought he would not be moved. He forgot how even standing at the edges of the lapping waves washes the sand over your feet, over your ankles and shins. How if you stay still long enough, staring at the water, it will hold you fast regardless, until the tide comes in.

And the sea can kill, yes. But right now it’s gentle, licking tentatively at his skin, salt spray on his face, in his hair. It feels new. _He_ feels new. This emotion does not consume; it surrounds. Death is a distant thought, one that seems wrong to equate with this easy swell within him. 

It’s strange. 

It’s different.

It’s not what Keith thought love was supposed to be.

Yet he knows he wants to be with Lance. He wants to feel Lance’s hands on him. Wants to wear laugh lines into Lance’s perfect skin. Wants to spend long hours doing nothing with Lance, fall asleep and wake up next to Lance, and do it all over again.

“ _I_ would, still, I think,” he says haltingly, frowning. “But that’s not what it is, for me, with you.”

Lance rests his head on his hand. His eyes glimmer with curiosity. “What is it, then.”

“I don’t know.” Half-laughing, he shakes his head. “I don’t know how to put it to words, but… it’s never been so easy to be with someone in my whole life.”

When he looks up, Lance is looking at him. His gaze is tender but unreadable. Keith returns it unflinchingly, trying to let Lance see inside.

After a long moment, Lance breaks eye contact. The corner of his mouth lifts softly. “I told you I used to feel like my heart was a sponge, right? It used to soak up everything, get full of, like, _feelings_ so easily...”

Keith nods.

“Well, if we kinda carry out that metaphor,” Lance says slowly, deliberately, measuring his words, “you could say that my sponge-heart dried up. Like, you know how a sponge gets all hard when you don’t use it for a while? It shrivels into a little hook shape, almost?” He brings his hand up to his face, makes a crooked C with it. His eyebrows pinch in the center as he does so, and suddenly Keith _aches_ to kiss him. 

Wonders if he’ll ever get to again. 

All he does is nod once more.

With a small, satisfied smile, Lance drops his hand to the table. “And once it’s like that,” he goes on, “it actually gets kinda weirdly difficult for it to take water again? Like, you have to run it under for a while, turn it this way and that, flood it, surround it so that it _has_ to fill up, that it can’t do anything _but_ take on water?”

Again, Keith nods, feeling rooted to the spot.

“And— and when it does, it swells up so fast that it feels even bigger than before?”

Keith swallows hard. His mouth is parched, his throat full. “Yeah.”

Lance opens his mouth, takes a breath. Then, seeming to think better of it, he closes it again. He leans his head on his hand, slants his eyebrows upwards, and just _looks_ at Keith. Looks at him like he’s water in the desert. Like he’s air in the dead blackness of space.

And Keith— 

Keith feels like he’s overflowing.

His breath takes a moment to catch, snagged as it is against his ribs. When he manages to drag it up, to fill his chest again with oxygen, he asks, remembering what Lance said about being on the castleship, “A-and… does that mean you need to be… wrung out?”

Lance huffs a sincere laugh that cuts off midway. His brows crumple together, his mouth turning down. Despairing. “I— I don’t know.”

Keith’s heart leaps into his throat. 

“You wanna know why I’ve been stalling so much?” Lance asks, his tone suddenly sour. “Asking for space, or if we can hang out just as friends, or whatever fucking weak-ass, dipshit things I’ve been saying?”

Keith grimaces. “I don’t think of it like that…”

“Sure, okay, but…” Dejectedly, Lance sighs. “But here’s the thing: I’ve always been second best.” He shrugs, shaking his head as tears well in his eyes. “That’s just… how it is. To you, at the Garrison. To you, again, in Black’s eyes. To Lotor, in Allura’s eyes. Hell, even in the eyes of the people I date, or my own _niece_!” He barks a bitter laugh, his face crumpling. “New team stinks,” he whispers. “Old team was way better.”

Keith has never felt the urge to hug someone so strongly. To wrap Lance in his arms and _show_ him how he feels, since the words are drying up on his tongue. “Lance...”

But Lance only shakes his head, dismissive. “It’s okay, man. I… I thought I had gotten used to it, but that day, when you went to talk to Shiro, I realized how much that idea... just fucking _destroyed_ me. The idea of being the consolation prize, second best, _again_ , I—” He bites his lip, brows furrowed deeply as he meets Keith’s eyes hard. “I can’t do it with you,” he confesses brokenly, muscle jumping in his jaw as he tries to hold back. “I can’t be second best in _your_ eyes, Keith. I can’t be some replacement, the knock-off version of what you really want, I _can’t._ Not again.”

Keith opens his mouth to respond but his breath catches at the devastation in Lance’s eyes.

“I don’t want to be your Shiro, Keith,” Lance says. The unshed tears in his gaze glitter like shards of glass, glinting with fire. “I want to be your _Lance_.”

Keith doesn’t think.

With a clatter of silverware and a scrape of wood on tile, Keith is at Lance’s side. And with a splintered sob, Lance throws his arms around Keith’s middle and buries his face in his stomach, his shoulders trembling when Keith’s hands land on them.

“What the fuck,” Lance chokes out, his fingers curling hard in Keith’s shirt. “What the fuck, dude. How did this happen? You and me—?”

Sincerely, Keith breathes, “I— I don’t know.” His heart clenches in his chest at the break in Lance’s voice.

Arms drawing him in, Lance nudges his nose harder against him, dampness seeping through Keith’s shirt. “I’m not— I wasn’t _ready_. I never thought—”

“Me neither,” Keith agrees quietly. He doesn’t know with which part. Unthinking, he runs his palms over Lance’s shoulders, the back of his neck.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” Lance mutters, sniffling hard. “I _knew_ you were unavailable, I _knew_ you were in love with Shiro. And I— I’m supposed to be _dead inside, Keith_ , what the _fuck, man_?”

In spite of himself, Keith chuckles. It sets Lance to huffing wet laughs against his shirt, still twisted tightly in his knuckles. Fondly, Keith pets at his nape, brushes some of his hair behind his ear. “I’m way stupider than you are,” he tells him gently. “I’m the one who thought it would work out with a married guy.”

Lance chuckles again, congestion sticking in his throat. 

“A married guy I didn’t even realize I wasn’t in love with anymore.”

“That _is_ pretty stupid.” Lance laughs when Keith tugs on his earlobe lightly in retaliation.

“Not as stupid as thinking you’re just a consolation prize,” Keith tells him softly. 

Lance goes still in his arms. Hesitantly, Keith leans back, cups Lance’s cheeks in his palm to lift his face. It’s ruddy and wet, his blue eyes turned red and watery and ashamed as they slink away from Keith’s.

 _A consolation prize._ The words echo in his memory, conjuring cool night air, creaking wood, Lance’s voice, easy with booze: _“Cash in your chips, buddy, you deserve a prize.”_

With a spike of shame, Keith realizes he himself once thought of Lance in exactly those terms. He’d wished for Shiro and gotten Lance, and was too stubborn and blind to realize that Lance was what he really needed, really _wanted_. He’s not the one who made Lance doubt himself, but he certainly never gave him reason not to.

Keith’s chest throbs with remorse, his throat tight. His fingers shake against Lance’s temples. “I don’t think of you like that, Lance,” he tells him fiercely, quietly, as sincerely as he can make his voice go. “I promise you I don’t.”

“I— I know you’ve said that,” Lance admits. “I just… have to come to believe it myself, I guess.”

Heart heavy, Keith swipes his thumb under Lance’s eye, catching a tear as it begins to trail down. He’s never held someone like this, between his hands, but for some reason it’s not as scary as he thought it would be. To comfort. To stare into a face shattered with emotion. 

And still he longs to kiss him. His salty, trembling lips. Desperately so.

“I want to help you believe it,” he whispers sadly. He has to. Has to set it right.

Lance’s eyes drift closed. He leans a cheek into Keith’s hand. “I don’t know if you can.”

That can’t be true. Keith’s very bones are shuddering with guilt. There has to be something he can do, or say. “I-I’ve never cooked for anyone like this in my life, you know,” he offers.

One eyebrow quirking up, Lance’s eyes raise in stuttering motions to his. “You said.”

“Well, I… I just wanted to say it again,” he stammers, heat rising to his face. “A-and I never brought anyone flowers, either.”

Lance’s brows twitch, understanding beginning to dawn in his eyes. “But you’re so suave,” he murmurs, teasing.

“I’m not, and you know it,” Keith grumbles.

Lance snickers. “Yeah, and it’s a good thing, too. I don’t want any competition.” He purses his lips, looking coyly up at Keith from beneath his wet, stuck-together lashes. “...What else?”

Color is certainly high in his cheeks by now. He tries to fight it down, fixes his gaze on a spot on the wall as he drops his hands from Lance’s face. “Uhh…” He tries to think. “I, uh— you’re the only person I’ve had sex with multiple times.”

Lance’s face twists into something confused, then laughing. “Excuse me?”

“It’s true.”

“By ‘multiple’ do you mean more than twice? Like, three times or more?”

“I mean I never had sex with the same person more than _once_ before you.”

A sly smirk spreading, Lance gives Keith an obvious, impressed once-over. “Slut,” he purrs.

Keith rolls his eyes, fighting his own answering smile. “Yeah, yeah.”

Lance leans forward to rest his chin against Keith’s stomach so his head tilts sharply upwards, his arms tightening around the small of Keith’s back and tugging him closer. “That makes me feel good,” he murmurs, his throat vibrating where it’s laid along Keith. “You doing stuff for me that you’ve never done for anyone else. It feels… really good.”

“Yeah, well…” Keith rubs at the back of his head, a little bashfully. “There’s a lot of that kind of thing. There’s— there’s a lot that I would do for you.”

Lance’s eyes widen, and then soften, going dark and full.

“A lot _more_ that I would do,” Keith goes on, his voice dipping low with awkward embarrassment. “I-if it would prove that you’re not second best, as far as I’m concerned…”

Slowly, Lance leans back so he’s not pressed against Keith any longer. His gaze doesn’t drop from Keith’s face. Lance’s lips part, his tongue darts out to run over them, eyes roaming down from Keith’s to…

Keith’s stomach swoops. Does Lance want to…? “Lance…?”

Lance swallows hard. “Keith, I-I…”

Then he clenches his eyes shut, shaking himself, and the spell seems to break.

“Ugh. I’m— I’m sorry,” Lance sighs. He pulls one arm away from around Keith’s back and scrubs his hand down his face, sniffing deeply once more. “I’m such a mess, asking you to gas me up like this when I can’t give you an honest answer of what I want—”

“You did, though,” Keith says. When Lance looks at him skeptically, he bobs his head. “I mean, I guess it’s a _little_ confusing, and I’m sure it would be easier for both of us if things were clearer, but… you did tell me what you wanted. You wanted space. And when you didn’t want it anymore, you told me that. And even now you’re telling me that… that you’re still not there yet…”

He says it tentatively, testing the waters, but Lance does not contradict him, only drags his bottom lip between his teeth pensively.

“And— and you would tell me if you definitely didn’t want to… to be together… right?”

That seems to snap Lance out of his deep thought. He jerks his eyes up to meet Keith’s. “What!? Of course! I’m not gonna— I mean, it’s not because I don’t want to—” He huffs, putting his face in his hands again as he lets out a loud, strangled noise. _“Ugh!”_

Lance’s exclamation is quickly followed by a shriek of surprise as Keith’s wolf teleports himself half-into Lance’s lap. 

It sends Keith stumbling backwards, the table rattling. The wolf thrusts his muzzle in Lance’s face, licking the salt off his skin, while Lance struggles to shove off his heft.

“Kos— Kup— _agh, whatever your name is!_ ” Lance exclaims, twisting his head out of reach of his tongue. “Down, boy!”

Keith can’t hide his snickers, watching Lance wrangle his wolf until he’s relaxed with his front legs across Lance’s lap, a disheveled Lance glaring down at him.

“He has a name, you know,” he tells Lance.

Lance looks up, smiling with his hands buried in the wolf’s ruff. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yep,” Keith says. “His name is Cody.”

Lance’s shoulders collapse in realization. “Keith,” he groans.

“Kody with a K.”

“Keith, no.”

“What? It’s cute.” Smirking, Keith whistles. “Here, Kody.”

“Keith!”

The wolf whips his head to Keith, tongue lolling eagerly before he hops off Lance to pad over to Keith. 

“See? He likes it.” Keith scratches under his chin and coos, “Goooood Kody.”

Lance buries his face in his hands and lets out a screaming groan that has the wolf’s ears tipping forward inquisitively.

Conversation lightens after that. They chat easily, laugh at each other as Lance finishes his dinner, gone cold, and then breaks out a pack of Oreos to share, all fanciness abandoned. It’s after midnight when Lance glances at the clock on the stove and sighs. “It’s getting kind of late.”

“Yeah…” Keith agrees, his heart sinking sadly. It’s been hours but still somehow not nearly long enough. He longs for the full days they used to spend together, uncaring of any missteps, in total sync. He wants to beg Lance to let him stay. Knows he shouldn’t.

Lance’s mouth twists up. “I… I can set up the air mattress if you—”

“No, I--” Keith interrupts him. Lance looks back at him uncertainly. “I’m staying with Pidge tonight. I already talked to her about it…”

“Oh.”

“I should probably get going, actually…”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

They both fidget before slowly pushing themselves up from the table. Lance gathers their plates and puts them in the sink while Keith pulls on his jacket and whistles for his wolf, who rouses with some confusion where he’s passed out by the vent. Lance follows them down the stairs, sits on one of the lower steps to ruffle the wolf’s fur while Keith tugs on his boots.

“Thanks for dinner, by the way.”

“Yeah. It turned out alright.”

“You kidding? Turned out great, man, for real. We, uh…” Lance seems to focus hard on rubbing the top of the wolf’s muzzle. “We should both take a lesson from Hunk, next time he’s around. It’d be fun.”

Keith’s heart leaps. He straightens, both boots on. “Yeah?”

Looking up, Lance smiles. “Yeah.”

The air between them is warm, golden. Keith wants to bury his face in it and breathe.

“So you want to see me again, is what you’re saying.”

“Nah,” Lance answers flippantly. “You know I hate your face.”

Keith snorts. “Well, I like yours, so you’ll have to deal, I guess.”

He says it like it’s an insult, so he’s surprised at how red streaks through Lance’s cheeks almost instantly, eyes widening before they clench shut. “Oh my god, dude, you’ve gotta get out right now.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. Lance looks far from angry. “Why? Because of what I said? It’s true.”

Lance makes some garbled noise, a hand covering his face.

“What? You’re—” Keith is honestly a little confused. Lance likes this kind of thing normally? “Like, you’re good-looking. You know that, though…”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Lance groans, his hand dragging down his face before it cuts decisively through the air. “You come into my home, make me dinner, comfort me while I’m crying, and then compliment me on your way out—what do you _expect_ me to do, Keith!? You need to leave before I jump your dumb, affectionate bones!”

“Oh.” Warmth curls a smile on his lips. “Well, it is true, though,” he says, his tone turning sly. “I do like your face.”

Abruptly, Lance’s hands land on his shoulders and spin him to face the door. “Aaand that’s about enough outta you,” he mumbles, reaching under Keith’s arm to undo the lock as Keith laughs.

“Hmm, where did these big, strong hands come from?” Keith muses, squeezing the one on his shoulder.

“You’re the worst.” Lance’s chuckles cascade over his ear.

“I learned from watching you.” Lance is warm behind him.

“Is that so?” They’re so close...

“Yeah…”

They fall silent. Lance is all but pressed against him, breathing along his neck, and Keith feels electric with the proximity. So easily, Lance could shift and brush his soft lips over Keith’s spine, over that spot he came to love so much. And if he did, Keith would be his, would melt against him, turn in his arms so their mouths could find each other again. His whole being yearns for it, body and soul.

Lance shifts. Keith’s breath hitches.

Arms wrap around him, tug him close, but there’s no heat, no need. Only a conflicted sigh as Lance hooks a chin over his shoulder and goes still, his chest flush against Keith’s back. After a moment, Keith relaxes against him, fingers hooking over the forearm across his chest.

“Thanks,” Lance whispers.

Keith doesn’t know exactly what for, but his answer would be the same no matter what. “Of course.”

They stay like that for a while, close just for closeness’s sake. Keith closes his eyes and rests his head against Lance’s. Feels the rise and fall of his chest behind him. Breathes in the citrus and spice scent of his winter cologne, wondering when it will shift into spring. Wondering if Lance kept it because of him.

When Lance speaks again, his voice is slightly hoarse against his shoulder. “You sure you’re okay to drive? It’s late.”

And Keith recognizes it for the opening it is. But something in his gut tells him leaving now is the right decision. That, somehow, staying tonight will only set them back. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Slowly, with a nod, Lance disengages. His eyes are unguarded, gentle, when Keith turns to meet them. “Drive safe, okay? Don’t get any stupid ideas.”

Keith snorts, reaching down to pat his wolf’s head as he sticks his nose to the crack in the door. “You got it.”

“Good.” Lance smiles. “I know you’re going back tomorrow, but… see you soon?”

Keith smiles back. “Soon.”

***

He’s halfway to the Holts’ apartment when it happens. 

The stupid idea. 

It comes like a bolt from the blue, the way many of Keith’s stupid ideas seem to. And also like many of his stupid ideas, he can’t shake it once it’s there, lodged in his brain.

God, it’s stupid. _So_ stupid.

And he’s even stupider, because he knows he’s gonna go through with it. The sooner the better. 

He sighs, shaking his head when his wolf glances at him inquisitively from the passenger seat. At least he’s already on his way to the Holts’.

He’s gonna need help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one more this time--for real! stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion. :)
> 
> thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs) for the beta read!
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter.


	11. And Me

The club is cramped, dark, and sweaty as hell. Keith hates it viscerally.

The pulsing beat of the music is all he can hear, all he can feel. He’s pretty sure it’s overtaken his own heart and the searing bass is pumping blood through his veins instead. The drink he downed in three gulps was syrupy sweet, but Matt assured him it had enough alcohol to send a small child to the hospital. So at least he has that going for him.

Because of all the ideas he’s had so far to convince Lance that he’s sure he wants them to be together, this might be the one to kill him.

It’s been about a month and a half since they last saw each other, which ended up being the soonest all the moving pieces of his plan could be put into action. His plan to prove that Lance isn’t a second choice, that he would do things for Lance that he would never do for anyone else.

Well, Keith thinks grimly as he sips his drink, this will certainly fit the bill.

It’s late, well into Matt’s set, and still no sign of Lance. He was confused when Keith suggested they meet here, of all places. but eventually promised to come, albeit with some doubt as to Keith’s motives behind the choice of venue.

 _we dont have to go to a club, man,_ he’d texted. _clubbing isnt that important to me lol, i just liked teasing u about it._

And Keith almost called the whole thing off. But then again, he’d already wired Matt the money, and was considering crafting an NDA for all the club’s attendees to sign.

And it’s _Lance_. That’s the main thing.

So Keith only sighs, his thumb tapping restlessly against his thigh as he leans ever-so-nonchalantly on the sticky bartop.

Then Lance enters through the front door and— and Keith’s not _that_ cliché, all right? It’s not like the clouds part and angels sing, but there is something about Lance’s face that spreads bone-deep relief through his body. He feels his heartbeat return to its normal pace, find its rhythm again.

Lance doesn’t see him right away, which lets Keith observe him for a moment. His hair is artfully tousled, his shirtsleeves rolled up and collar open to show off the grace of his neck. One hand is tucked nonchalantly into the front pocket of the jeans, accentuating the slimness of his hips, and Keith’s here on a mission of sincere devotion or whatever, but he can’t stop himself from lamenting the fact that he never fucking tapped that ass.

Maybe tonight, he thinks with heart-thumping anxiety.

Lance’s eyes scan the crowd, so Keith raises a sheepish hand to wave. Lance’s gaze snags on him almost immediately, his face lighting up in a way that has warmth rolling pleasantly over Keith’s skin as Lance makes his way through the crowd to him.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” Lance drawls with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Come here often?”

Keith snorts, unable to stop the heat rising to his cheeks. Since when does Lance’s dumb flirting actually work on him?

“No,” he replies bluntly, keenly aware that he’s failing at keeping up the bit but too keyed up to spend energy fretting over it.

To his relief, Lance only laughs, his eyes roaming over him fondly. “You look nice,” he murmurs, the way his gaze catches on Keith’s black leggings telling him that _nice_ is an understatement.

Good. That’s what the leggings were for.

“So do you,” Keith replies with a smirk.

Lance quirks up a smile and winks. “So, can I get you a drink, stranger, or do you just want to get out of here?”

Keith can’t stop the surprise from registering on his face. So forward… Does he really mean…? 

Then the song changes, and adrenaline burns through Keith’s veins yet again. Matt must have had his eye on the door, too, must have seen Lance walk in and find Keith. He almost winces at the familiar music, the long lead-in that Matt told him was necessary but that right now only serves to spike his anxiety.

“Sorry, I actually, uh… that’s my cue,” Keith tells Lance, and only barely registers the confusion in his face before he turns to leave, pushing his way through the crowd of people to the DJ booth. 

_This was a bad idea. This was such a fucking terrible idea_.

“Hope y’all’re ready for something a little bit _different tonight!_ ” Matt shouts into his microphone, even though Keith’s barely halfway to him. There are some vague _woo_ s from the crowd, but for the most part the club ignores him. “I’m gonna be playing something brand new for you and we got the original artist right here in the building… Anyone here ever heard of _Voltron_!?”

The _woo_ s are a bit more enthusiastic about that. It makes Keith feel simultaneously better and worse.

“Well, have I got a treat for you!” Matt says, heedless of the generally lukewarm reaction. “Because tonight we have a song by Voltron’s very own _Keith Koganeeee_!” 

The cry that sends up is marginally more excited, Keith will admit, and it makes him want to melt into the floor. Instead, he climbs the few steps to the DJ platform and hesitantly, distastefully, takes the microphone from Matt. He studies it for a moment before bringing it to his lips, looking out over the dark, heaving sea of people.

“Hi.”

It’s barely audible over the music, and Keith’s right by the speakers. In the corner of his eye he sees Matt pointedly lifting his hands, palms up, a clear indication to raise his voice. He sighs, irritation building.

_The key is you can’t be afraid to make a fool of yourself._

_I’m not afraid to make a fool of myself. I just don’t want to._

“Hi!” he shouts.

He gets a few scattered _woo_ s from the teeming crowd. He fights down a scowl. It’s fine if people aren’t listening, he guesses, as long as one person is. He’s glad he has no clue where Lance is out there in the undulating darkness.

“Uh, I’m Keith?”

He tries not to cringe. God, he hates this. He hates his voice, hates how it’s going high on the ends like he has no fucking clue what his name even is. Hates how Matt is just bopping his head to the beat next to him as if he doesn’t look like a fucking idiot.

_You hate looking like an idiot._

_I do._

_But you’d let yourself look like an idiot if for some reason that was my criteria for us to be together._

“And this song is, umm,” he says, eyes on the black ceiling. He lets the mic flop in his hand. Snatches of conversations echo between his ears. Conversations between him and Lance. Countless conversations. Conversations he never wants to end.

_That makes me feel good. You doing stuff for me that you’ve never done for anyone else. It feels… really good._

Steeling himself, he brings the mic back to his mouth to utter a rushed, breathy: “For Lance McClain.”

Someone fucking _screams_ at that. It sounds like Pidge. Keith has just a moment to whip his head to the side to glare at Matt—who apparently ignored Keith’s orders not to tell _anyone else_ and is still just dancing blithely to the beat—before the song kicks in in earnest and Keith has to lift the mic back to his mouth so that he can intone along with the lyrics:

_Lance_

(Ugh, fuck. This is so fucking cringey he can’t—)

_I like Lance_

(—but the lyrics are just gonna keep going and it’d be worse if he stopped, right, so he has to—)

_I like-like-like-like-like-like Lance_

He’s gone beyond embarrassed. Beyond looking stupid. He’s blasted so far past his comfort zone that he can no longer even see it in his rearview mirror. He’s practically having an out-of-body experience, watching himself from where his soul has left his corporeal form as he stands in front of a crowd of strangers and chants, 

_I like-luh-like-luh-luh-luh-like Lance_

But as he stands there, “singing,” watching himself with something like resigned horror, he realizes something strange. He’s the center of attention, yes, ostensibly, but no one is actually paying attention to him. Perhaps they were at first, but apparently even the spectacle of a semi-celebrity making an absolute ass of himself before a crowd of a hundred people can’t hold everyone’s attention. The people beside the DJ platform aren’t even looking at him, they’re just grinding on each other to this completely bizarre song and trying not to spill their drinks.

It’s… actually kind of freeing.

So he sings. Er, “sings.” He _intones_ along with the music, anyway, and he’s almost achieved a sort of Zen, in fact, about the entire thing, when a familiar face appears at the base of the platform.

Lance is staring at him, utterly agog.

Keith’s soul crashes back into his body. His heart is in his throat, his legs stiff and awkward, and suddenly adrenaline is shooting through him yet again, all Zen a distant memory. Because now he’s forced to confront one person, _the_ person, whose attention he absolutely needs to be on him.

And it is.

Lance’s eyes are wide, his brows lifted, his mouth agape. Keith has seen this expression on Lance’s face before, but only in split-second snatches in the moments before he bursts into laughter. Right now, it’s frozen, as though Lance doesn’t know what reaction is going to follow and is instead stuck in complete incredulity.

It’s strange how even though this entire thing is for Lance, Keith has never wanted someone to be farther away from him.

The lyrics die away for a few seconds’ interlude. He pulls the mic away from his face to shout at Lance, “Don’t look at me!”

Lance’s brows go higher, his smile tugging even wider. “No?”

Keith can’t really hear him, but he can read his lips, so he shakes his head. He’s unable to meet Lance’s gaze, but the enormous, disbelieving smile on Lance’s face, coupled with the nervous energy coursing through Keith’s veins, is urging him to laugh, to release the jittery electricity that Keith is pretty sure is the only thing keeping him standing.

At his feet, Lance leans in. His lips curl exaggeratedly around the words: “Come down!”

But Keith can only shake his head again. The interlude is coming to an end, his sweaty fingers itching around the mic. “It’s not over!” he shouts back.

Lance reels back, shocked and… impressed? A real smile tugs at Keith’s lips as Lance ducks back in to ask in wonderment, “Who _are_ you!?”

“I don’t even know anymore!” Keith answers dizzily as he raises the microphone. His words boom through the club, and somehow that gets another chorus of drunken _woo_ s that has Lance looking around him in amusement and Keith stumbling over the lyrics as they kick in again. 

For as embarrassing as it was to stand by the DJ booth and chant _I like Lance_ in time with his own Pidge-recorded voice to a faceless crowd, doing it to Lance himself is a whole other level. Keith can barely keep rhythm anymore, the way his face is burning up, because Lance _won’t take his eyes from him._

“Stop looking!” Keith begs him between lines, flailing an arm his way.

“No way!” Lance calls back, his smile splitting his face in two. He looks too fucking gorgeous, gazing up at Keith like he’s the most precious thing in the universe, and Keith can’t take it. He does the only thing he can think of and plasters a hand over his eyes, so at least he won’t have to see Lance looking at him. The peal of giddy laughter he hears following it is a shot of heat straight to his core.

Before the “chorus” has even ended, there are hands on Keith’s ankles, and then his calves, his knees, tugging him forward, and he has to open his eyes lest he trip and take an unplanned crowdsurfing trip. He stumbles, his arms pinwheeling as he tries desperately not to drop the mic—the one thing Matt made him _swear_ he would not do, or else he would get banned from playing at this club ever again—but in mere seconds, Lance’s arms catch giddily around him and Lance’s warm mouth is crookedly kissing his.

Everything evaporates. Sweaty darkness, searing bass—everything.

Keith melts into the kiss, allowing Lance’s dumb farm-strong body to buoy him. The microphone is plucked from his hands, and Keith prays it was Matt who did it because his fingers are tangling in Lance’s hair, slightly stiff from the product that he wore to go out to meet Keith, to _impress Keith,_ surely, and that thought has him kissing Lance even harder as Lance meets him enthusiastically, laughing breathlessly into Keith’s mouth.

“Too hard!” Lance is giggling. “You kiss— too hard!”

“You don’t kiss hard _enough_ ,” Keith cries back, delirious. “Jackass.”

When Keith’s feet touch the ground, they break apart ever so slightly, foreheads still touching. Keith realizes as though from a great distance that the club is still around them. Everyone is still dancing to the endless, mindless beat of his stupid song. No one stopped to cheer for them, to pat them on the backs. No one cared at all.

No one except Lance. 

“So much for the ‘everybody clapped’ moment, huh?” Lance chuckles against Keith’s lips, clearly thinking the same thing.

“I’d be annoyed if I wasn’t so fucking relieved,” Keith confesses, eagerly returning the kiss Lance tries to steal from him.

“Hey, congratulations!”

They pull apart reluctantly in response to the strange voice. Keith’s fairly certain he’s glaring at this smiling young woman with an undercut, who has a hand on Lance’s shoulder.

“Who are you?” he asks bluntly, all social graces burned away by first his overwhelming panic and then Lance’s mouth.

But Lance seems to recognize her, his face morphing into a mask of surprise. “Oh my god, Kara,” he blurts out. “I— I didn’t know you were—”

“Oh, no hard feelings,” the woman says, lifting her hand from Lance’s shoulder. Gradually, Keith realizes she looks familiar. It takes him a moment to realize where he recognizes her from: the McClains’ kitchen. She’s no longer blonde, and one half of her hair is buzzed, but it’s the same girl from the wedding photo. “Just thought I’d congratulate you on finding someone who makes you look like _that_ ,” she says with a wave as the crowd pulls her away. “Hope I see you around!”

Keith’s hackles lower. Because Lance’s arms are still around him, his face still inches away, and yeah, he looks radiant. Incandescent with happiness. Keith almost wants to pull away to get a better look, but he can’t stand the idea of being any farther from Lance than he is right now.

“Y-yeah, you too!” Lance calls after her. He turns back to Keith, an incredulous smile lighting up his face. “Well, we got _one_ someone clapping, anyway.”

“You have too many exes,” Keith tells him.

“Yeah?” Lance’s eyes light with mischief. “You wanna fight ’em off? Let ’em know I’m yours?”

The way Keith’s heart leaps at those words keeps him from replying. All he does is pull Lance back to him with a hungry growl, Lance’s hands running delightedly over his shoulders.

“Seriously, though, what the fuck?” Lance shakes his head in disbelief. The movement turns Keith’s head, too, they’re so close. He couldn’t care less. “Why did you—? _When_ did you—?”

“When I stayed at the Holts’ last time,” Keith tells him. “I thought of it on the drive over.”

“I can’t believe you _did_ that,” Lance laughs wonderingly. “ _You_ did that. You, Keith! You did that!”

“Did it work?” Keith asks, already knowing the answer.

Lance’s head tips back so he can laugh at the ceiling. “Did it work, he asks!” he crows. He returns, cupping Keith’s face in both hands so that he can smile directly into his eyes. “Yes. Yes, it worked, you big dumb idiot.”

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” Keith exclaims, the last of his nervous adrenaline finally seeping from him. “Because I am never doing _anything_ like that again.”

Beaming, Lance reels him back in with an arm around his neck, his mouth landing on his, wide and smiling and warm, and Keith kisses him back with all that he has, pressing against him as tightly as he can, reveling in the familiarity, in the comfort, in the _again_ of it all.

Then, to Keith’s horror, something else happens again.

_Lance_

_I like Lance_

Aghast, they pull apart from each other. Slowly, as one, they turn to stare at the DJ booth. There’s Matt, still bopping along to the endless beat, and beside him is an evilly grinning Pidge and a proudly waving Hunk, both watching Keith and Lance.

_I like-like-like-like-like-like Lance_

They turn back to each other, dumbfounded. Then Lance lifts one side of his mouth. “Wanna get out of here?” he suggests.

Keith can’t answer fast enough. “Hell yes.”

***

The drive back to Lance’s place is full of delirious, disbelieving laughter and even more disbelieving touches, palms roaming over skin and clothing alike. At one point, Keith comes within inches of sucking Lance’s dick on the highway just because Lance claimed he wouldn’t and Keith felt that familiar surge of a _Lance challenge_ and just _had_ to prove him wrong.

(Well, that wasn’t the only reason…)

They barely make it through Lance’s front door before clothes are being tugged off, lips sucked between teeth, flesh dotted with bruises from fingers and tongues. Keith only halts their progression long enough to make a point to slide his feet into his familiar slippers, holding a hand to Lance’s chest as he tucks his toes in.

“There we go,” he says, and looks up with a smile.

The expression in Lance’s eyes is as fond as it is ravenous. “We gonna fuck with those on?”

“Don’t try me, McClain,” Keith responds.

Chuckling, they fall together again. They stumble up the stairs, constantly connected—hands, hips, arms, mouths—and Keith is surprised when Lance gently pushes him away.

“One sec, all right?” he says, slightly breathless. “Gonna slip into something more… _comfortable_.”

Keith rolls his eyes at the line, but allows Lance to saunter away down the hall, feeling strangely bereft. He finds his way back to the living room, where Luna lets out a little _mrrp!_ as he pets her, trying to calm himself down, willing away the boner he’s been sporting for the past half-hour at least.

He has no clue if Lance is on the same page as he is, although he has a pretty good idea. But just in case, he doesn’t want to pressure him too much. He wants to do this _right_ , after all. Wants it to mean something. Wants them both to know that it does.

A few minutes pass, and Keith thinks he has a handle on things. Then he hears feet tread back down the hall, his heart rate jacking up with every step. Lance appears in the doorway wearing a white undershirt, cotton shorts, and a stare that turns hungry as soon as he lays eyes on Keith.

They crash into each other again.

“I missed you,” Lance breathes against Keith’s lips, his fingers tangling in his hair. “Just now, I fucking missed you. How fucking pathetic is that?”

Keith moans rather than admit he felt the same. Lance pushes him down on the couch and then quickly climbs over him, straddling his waist, his shorts riding up his thick, shapely thighs.

“Here?” Keith asks, his mouth already feeling wet and swollen with the desperation of Lance’s. “Why not— the bedroom?”

“I dunno,” Lance confesses with a laughing shrug, nosing Keith’s jaw to the side to litter it with kisses. “Just always pictured it here, I guess.”

Fire blazes in Keith’s gut. “Pictured what?” he pants, eager for the words, eager not to have to guess with Lance ever again.

“Us,” Lance replies. “Us, together again.”

Keith’s fingers dig into Lance’s hips, pawing at the tops of his thighs, the sides of his ass. He feels utterly wild, his lips and tongue unapologetically brutal against Lance’s. He thinks back to their first kiss, almost two years ago now. He thinks back to _you kiss too hard_ and he doesn’t care. Lance is his, _his_ , and he’s going to sink his teeth and claws into him until they can’t tell each other apart.

His fingertips crawl forward, inching around the ass that he’s been meaning to get to for all these months. And fuck, what an ass—taut, meaty, just the right amount of give to make Keith want to tear into it like a steak. Lance’s cock is a swiftly growing bulge against his belly, but he can’t allow it to distract him. Not tonight. Not when he’s finally ready to claim Lance as thoroughly as Lance had claimed him without either of them even knowing it.

Then his roving fingertips knock against something solid. Something inorganic.

Startled, he pulls back to meet Lance’s eyes. “Is—” He has to clear his throat; already his voice is rough with need. “Is that—?”

Lance bites his lip coquettishly as he nods, but no color reaches his cheeks. He is fucking shameless, and Keith loves it—hates it—loves it.

What the fuck, he _loves it._

Delirious, he buries his face in Lance’s neck, nudging the base of the plug that’s nestled between Lance’s ass-cheeks. He grins against Lance’s skin when he arches into him, whimpering. God, Lance should always be making that noise, that noise like Keith has him on a leash and he’s getting off on it.

“So why do you have this in, hm?” he asks darkly, tonguing at the corded tendon of Lance’s neck as he tugs lightly at the flared base. “Hoping for something to happen, were you?”

“Yeah,” Lance breathes, “I was hoping for you to _, hahh,_ fuck me. Obviously.”

Keith hums, gravelly as he sucks at Lance’s bared throat. He can feel Lance’s pulse jumping under his tongue, pounding hard, pumping desire through his veins with every pluck of Keith’s fingers against that plug. “And how long have you had it in?”

Lance doesn’t answer, so Keith presses hard, grinding the plug in. The moan it wrings from Lance’s chest spikes heat down to his toes.

“Huh, _kitten_?” he insists, amused by how Lance squirms in his lap. He snakes an arm around Lance’s lower back, keeping him there. “Did you put it in just now? Not so much slipping into something more comfortable, but slipping something more comfortable into you?” He smirks.

But Keith’s satisfaction with his own uncharacteristically clever turn of phrase is quickly forgotten when, to his surprise, Lance shakes his head. He whines when Keith’s hand leaves his ass to go to Lance’s hair and pull him back so he can look him in the eyes. They’re glazed over with lust, pupils swallowing up those dark blue irises, yet when they meet Keith’s, mischief still sparks. Like flint striking tinder.

It’s with genuine curiosity and growing understanding that Keith murmurs, “When did you put it in, Lance?”

Lips quirking into a half-smile, he pants, “Before I left.”

It’s lightning to Keith’s spine, the realization. It trickles through his veins like liquid electricity, exciting and... enraging him.

“You put it in when you…”

His hand fists in Lance’s short hair and yanks, pulling another whimper from Lance.

“So you wanted me to fuck you tonight no matter what, huh?” he growls. “You just let me make a fool of myself in front of everyone in the club with that stupid song for no fucking reason? Is that it?”

Even with Keith’s punishing grip, the half-smirk remains on Lance’s lips. “Didn’t know you were gonna do _that_ ,” he says. “I tried to get you to leave, but—”

Keith’s growl sounds dangerous even to his ears. “You could have tried a little harder, Lance, don’t you think?”

“Couldn’t take it anymore, was gonna put an end to all of this,” Lance breathes, one eye cracking open to peer sincerely at Keith. “Missed you too much.”

Keith’s heart flutters like a songbird in his chest. And from the way Lance’s smile widens, he knows Lance can tell.

Ruthlessly, he drags Lance’s mouth to his and crushes them together, tangling tongues and driving teeth into lips. He swallows Lance’s shattered moan when his hand returns to the plug, thrusting it shallowly into him, allowing the bulb to catch on his rim, hinting at pulling it out, and then shoving it back in, over and over until Lance is letting out helpless, breathy moans into Keith’s mouth, his hips twitching forward and back in time with the movements.

Keith’s cock is straining against his leggings, throbbing with every cry and mewl spilling from Lance’s mouth. He wants to fuck Lance. _God_ , he wants to fuck Lance.

And he’s going to.

But he can’t let Lance think he’s in control here. Lance has been in control too long.

He releases the plug, huffing a laugh at the whine of protest that Lance lets out. He can’t help it; he has to lift his hand and slap it back down on Lance’s ass cheek, has to laugh at the shuddery moan it draws from Lance.

“God, listen to you,” he chuckles, nosing Lance’s face to the side to nip at his jaw. “You sound so fucking _slutty_ , Lance.”

Lance shivers at that but still chokes out a laugh. “I mean,” he breathes, “you saw the Voltron show. Gotta stay on brand.”

Giddiness swells in Keith’s chest. It spills from his lips in a helpless giggle, his body shaking with a mixture of relief and overwhelming happiness. He drops his forehead to rest on Lance’s similarly shaking shoulder and wonders if he’s ever felt this way before, euphoric and buzzing with joy.

He knows he hasn’t.

Lance’s fingers creep into his hair, smoothing his bangs away from his forehead and cheek until Keith sits back to meet his gaze. Lance is smiling at him, looking half-wrecked. Charmed and horny, exactly the way Keith feels.

“So I take it you _did_ see the Voltron show,” Lance says, amused.

“Yes. Your rope-dancing.”

Lance’s smile is so fucking smug it makes Keith want to start laughing again. “How you didn’t fuck me back then I’ll never know,” he sighs.

Feeling playful, Keith tilts his head. “Wanna know a secret?” he whispers.

Lance’s eyes light up. He bows his head, as though he doesn’t want anyone else to overhear. 

And Keith _could_ tell Lance about how he once got hard watching Lance do the splits in midair and jerked off to the idea of tying him up in that same rope and fucking him ’til he cried, ’til he admitted he was a jackass, ’til he sobbed that he was wrong to ever question Keith and that he could never go back to chasing women after what Keith had done to him.

(Now that he thinks about it, maybe he had some of his own unacknowledged fantasies about Lance, buried so deep even Keith forgot them. Huh.)

“What?” Lance asks.

Right. His secret. _Not_ that one. _That_ one he can save for later, when he needs to make up to Lance the fact that he’s about to torture him a little.

For now, Keith smiles devilishly and leans in, lips brushing Lance’s ear when he says, “I’m not gonna fuck you.”

Lance goes totally still in Keith’s arms. Then he wrenches himself back, his face a mask of petulant horror. It’s so dramatic that Keith can’t stop the laugh that bursts from his lips.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Lance demands, fists landing on his hips. “And just what is so funny about that?”

Keith keeps silent but for the stray snickers he can’t fight down.

“Keith!” Lance whines, shoulders slump. “You gotta fuck me! Look at my underwear!” He tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and jerks them down beneath the hard bulge of his cock, the fabric of his red boxer briefs soaked and clinging lewdly to the crown of it. “What am I supposed to do with this? This underwear that you absolutely _ruined_ fucking all the precome out of me with that plug?”

“Mm,” Keith hums. “Wow.” He slides his hand forward to thumb at Lance’s cockhead through the briefs. When he draws his thumb away slowly, a sticky thread of precome strings along with it. Feeling Lance’s eyes on him like hot coals, he brings the pad of his thumb to his lips and sucks.

Lance whimpers. _“Ke-eith…”_

Keith quirks an eyebrow at him, salty thumb still between his smirking lips. Voice low, he murmurs, “If you would let me finish…”

“Right, as if you didn’t pause for dramatic effect,” Lance grumbles.

Keith’s hand drops back to Lance’s cock, hard and wet, and _squeezes_ , making Lance gasp. “Let me _finish_ ,” he growls, and Lance swallows audibly. “As I was saying. I’m not gonna fuck you… _yet_.”

Lance rolls his eyes.

“Because you’re gonna fuck me first.”

Lance’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open. Keith grins wolfishly back at him.

“Whuh— How— Wait—” Lance sputters, shakes his head as if to clear it, and then stills, just as slack-jawed as before. “I’m _what_?”

“You’re gonna fuck me first,” Keith says calmly, tapping his thumb against Lance’s still-very-hard dick. He bends closer, nosing along Lance’s jaw to his ear. “It’s been far too long since I felt this inside me.”

“ _Hrmm-guh-huhh_ ,” is the noise Lance makes in response, his eyes fluttering shut.

“And we’re gonna do it in your bed,” Keith goes on decisively. “We’re gonna need more room.”

Lance lets out another wordless half-groan, turning to a hiss when Keith wraps his fingers loosely around his cock. His hips kick forward, a jerky, aborted movement that has the dark spot on Lance’s underwear spreading.

“Well?” Keith cocks his head. “Can you walk?”

But Lance makes no move to stand up; he only pouts. “You’re so mean. I was never this mean.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Keith asks, stilling his hand.

“ _God_ , no,” Lance says, a burst of coherence that has Keith chuckling. With sudden resolve, he pushes himself off Keith to clamber to his feet, looking a little dazed as the plug surely jostles inside him. He holds out a hand to Keith, grinning cheekily. “The safe word is _quiznak_.”

Keith can’t help but laugh.

In giddy, giggly moments (the giggles belonging to Lance _only_ , Keith will later insist, if anyone’s asking), they’re careening into Lance’s bedroom. In the steps since the couch, Lance has clearly come around on the idea of fucking Keith first, joyfully grasping, pinching, smacking at the muscle of Keith’s ass all the way here. By the time Keith steps over the room’s threshold, his leggings are already halfway down his thighs, and the cradle of Lance’s pelvis is plastered to his ass, Lance’s hands gripping onto his hips. They stumble into the room, stiff-legged and laughing, precome smearing all over Keith’s lower back.

“Lance!” Keith laughs, catching his balance before he topples forward. “You’re gonna make me fall!”

Undeterred, Lance merely nuzzles against the back of Keith’s neck, shooting tingles over his skin. “Mm, great idea. Where’s that kill switch…?”

“La— _hnngh_ …”

“Found it!”

The triumph in Lance’s voice and his own competitive urge are the only things that allow Keith to overcome the tempting bonelessness of Lance nipping at the junction between shoulder and neck. With herculean effort, he twists in Lance’s arms, grabs a fistful of his t-shirt, and manages to spin him forward and onto the bed.

 _“_ Wha— _Haahh…”_ Lance’s sound of shock wrenches into a gasp as he lands hard on the mattress, his face twisting in surprised pleasure.

Keith smirks, shimmying the rest of his way out of his leggings (which worked like a charm, by the way). “Feeling good?”

Lance nods breathlessly, dragging a hand over his face before he starts to tear his own clothes off. “Plug,” he explains. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, yanking them and his briefs down those long, muscled thighs, the ones Keith can’t wait to have wrapped around him, and then reaches between them. “One sec, gotta take it—” 

In moments, Keith is kneeling on the bed. He catches his wrist in tight fingers, his face serious. “That’s not going anywhere,” he says, voice low.

Lance’s eyes go huge before Keith’s as he grasps the implications. Then his mouth falls open, and his face folds into something like lustful awe. It reminds Keith of the first time they had sex, when he got his mouth around Lance’s cock, and Lance looked blown away that Keith would do such a thing to him.

“Fuck, dude,” breathes the Lance of here and now, throwing his arms around Keith’s neck and pulling him in. “I can’t believe I survived without you.”

Then they’re kissing. It’s incredulous heat and fulfilled longing and it has Keith’s heart melting into a glittering pool of light, shimmering and spreading into his fingers and toes. He crawls over Lance, laying his body along his to press him into the mattress. Lance kisses him perfectly, _perfectly_ , making Keith thrill with every brush of their lips, with the delirious movements of his tongue. Lance’s fingers are twining in his hair. Keith has never wanted to be as close to someone as he wants to be to Lance right now. 

It’s impossible to be as close as he wants to be.

“God, I want you so bad,” Lance sighs.

“Me, too,” Keith admits, hungry for his mouth, his body.

They kiss for long, ecstatic minutes, before Keith reaches for the lube on Lance’s nightstand. He starts stretching himself quickly, impatiently, until Lance begs to take over with his own fingers and mouth, as he is wont to do. Something about feeling Keith go loose and pliant under his power always seems to get Lance dizzy with desire, his cock throbbing over his twitching abs as Keith swings his legs over Lance’s shoulders.

“Fuck yes, _fuck_ yes,” Lance pants eagerly, one hand gripping Keith’s thigh and the other snaking under to hook a finger in his wet rim as Keith slowly lowers his ass down to Lance’s face.

“Haven’t, _ah_ , done this before, have we?” Keith breathes with a smirk as he braces himself, knowing the answer.

All Lance can do is moan enthusiastically against his hole, his tongue pressing in beside a searching finger.

Lance opens him up lavishly, taking his time. Restless, braced on his elbows over Lance’s hips and facing his curling toes, Keith kind of wants to hurry him up. He has big plans for where this night is going, after all; he’s ambitious and raring to go, pent-up from the months without Lance’s warm hands on his skin.

But then he makes himself listen to the sounds Lance is making, the overwhelmed whines, the humming groans, a song of rapture that has Keith’s head spinning.

Then he realizes that Lance isn’t the only one singing it. When the fat of Lance’s tongue presses into him at the same time as his hand lands hard on the meat of his ass, Keith jerks and moans, full-throated and open-mouthed, his cheek pressed against Lance’s thigh. And when Lance withdraws his fingers and tongue and roughly declares Keith ready for him, Keith whimpers at the loss of the wet heat of Lance’s mouth, his impatience long gone.

Lance wipes his chin with the back of his hand as Keith struggles onto his hands again, looking over his shoulder at Lance. “How do you want me?” Lance asks, throaty.

Keith doesn’t answer, not verbally. He feels beyond words for the moment, his arms shaking beneath his weight so that he has to lock his elbows. When he focuses his bleary eyes downward, he can see a small trail of drool where his face was pressed against Lance’s thigh. It makes him feel dizzy to see, to realize just how out of his head Lance made him.

Well, two can play at that game.

Painstakingly, Keith inches forward, hands and knees on either side of Lance’s hips as he crawls his way down his body. He pauses when he’s poised over Lance’s cock and rocks back up onto his knees, reaching behind him to where Lance is hard and thick and dripping, aiming it at his hole.

When he chances a look over his shoulder again, Lance’s jaw is nearly on his chest, his eyes wide and black and glimmering in the light. His hands are hovering shakily over Keith’s hips like he’s afraid to touch, like Keith will disappear in a cloud of smoke if he tries to hold him down.

Keith huffs a laugh. He reaches his other hand back to spread his ass and shamelessly taps the head of Lance’s cock against his hole, smirking as Lance’s visibly swallows, his eyes going impossibly wider.

“Holy fuck, are you serious?” Lance asks in a hushed breath. “Keith, this is— this is too much…”

Keith rolls his eyes. “You act like I’m trying to give you money or something.”

“I mean, not money, but a gift,” Lance replies, his eyes not leaving where Keith is teasing himself with the tip of Lance’s dick. “A really, really fucking good gift.”

His eyelids flutter shut briefly when Keith allows his hole to swallow just the tip and then lifts off again, the loss of contact making both of them groan.

Lance’s hands clench and fall to his sides. “C’mon, now, don’t ungive the gift,” he chides him teasingly. “That’s just ru-hoo- _hahh_ , _fuckk, Keith…!_ ” 

Keith lets out his own wordless groan in answer as he lowers himself, sinking down onto Lance’s thick cock, taking it almost to the root on the first thrust.

Instantly, he has to stop, bracing with both hands on the bedspread between Lance’s flexing calves. Lance, he can hear behind him, is already gone, letting out helpless moans and half-words, curses and grateful praise alike. Keith is part of the way there, himself; it’s been so long since he had Lance’s cock that he had almost forgotten the delicious stretch, the perfect heat and girth and ridges of it inside him. The fact that he’s bare inside Keith only drives the delirious fire ever higher in his veins, licking at the base of his skull.

Slowly, he pulls off a few inches and then arches his back to suck Lance back in, undulating his back and hips to make sure Lance gets a good view of how Keith’s hole takes him, insatiable.

“Holy fuck,” Lance breathes, the brokenness of his voice reverberating in Keith’s ribcage. _“Fuck.”_ As if to punctuate it, he finally allows his hands to fall on Keith’s ass, spreading and kneading relentlessly, clearly mindless. “Fuck, _fuckkk_ , you’re a perfect handful, you know that? Jesus Christ. Fill my hands perfectly, just enough spillover for me to—” _Smack!—_ another of Lance’s overwhelmed spanks, followed by a guttural groan. “I wanna _bite_ it, oh my _god…_ ”

Lance’s overcome praise has Keith’s pulse jumping, his blood pulsing in his head. He can feel the satisfied smile playing around his mouth, the way his lips tug to the side even while his brows furrow with concentration as Lance’s hands begin to tug at Keith’s hips, pulling Keith back onto him, trying to thrust up. It throws off their rhythm, has Keith bracing himself with a hand as Lance pushes him to the brink before he’s ready.

“Shit, shit, shit—!” Keith grits out, shoving a hand down to Lance’s thigh to hold him still.

Lance freezes instantly, his grip slackening. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, did I hurt you!?”

Breathless, Keith shakes his head. “No,” he pants, still poised motionless over Lance’s hips while he waits for his heart rate to steady. “But you can’t make me come if you want me to fuck you.”

“Oh.” Lance exhales in relief, relaxing. He slides his hands soothingly over Keith’s skin. “Sorry. I just really love watching you come.”

The word choice sticks in the hollow of Keith’s throat. _Love_.

“Mm,” he replies, still a little lost for words.

Slowly, he begins to move again, and this time Lance’s hands fall away. The rhythm of his hips begins to drag strained noises from Lance’s chest again, high and breathy. Keith chases them with a smirk, delighting in the way he can make Lance respond to him. Throwing his head back, he glances over his shoulder—

—to find Lance’s eyes clenched shut, his hands fisted in the sheets at his sides, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Keith huffs, slowing. “Okay, you’re going to miss like eighty percent of the point of me doing this if you’re gonna keep your eyes closed.”

Lance’s eyes open blearily, his body relaxing slightly beneath Keith’s. “Dude, I literally can’t look or touch or I’m gonna blow my load like, right away. It’s been way too long, and you’re so fucking hot, and I still have that plug in, and—”

“You mean this plug?” Keith asks, reaching between Lance’s legs to pluck at it evilly.

Lance fucking keens beneath him, writhing. When he catches his breath, he pants sharply, “ _Yes_ , Keith, I mean _that_ plug.”

“Hmm…” Keith hums bemusedly, as though he’s considering it. He grips it again and pulls lightly, just enough for the bulb to tug at Lance’s rim, just enough to get Lance moaning beneath him again. Then he pushes it back in, riding the swell of Lance’s hips as he bends off the bed. He wishes he had any idea of what exact shape this plug was so he could know if there was an optimal way to push it in to nudge at Lance’s prostate, but he’ll have to make do with guesses.

The third time he pulls it out and pushes back in, he starts to move again himself.

Lance bucks up into him so hard he nearly falls right over, ass over head off the foot of the bed.

Then Lance’s hands are gripping his ass hard again, pulling him back flush against the cradle of Lance’s hips, taking him to the root, making Keith moan with the stretch of his rim around Lance’s cock. Behind him, Lance surges up, shifting beneath Keith to wrap his arms securely around his belly, his nose brushing the notches of his spine.

“Ah, fuck,” Keith gasps, as Lance nips between his shoulder blades.

“Look too good,” Lance slurs against his skin. “Gotta touch you. Touch every part of you.”

His knees winging out beneath Keith’s, Lance begins to move himself. The first few thrusts of his hips are small, tentative, but soon enough he’s jackrabbiting up into Keith, moaning loud and helpless against Keith’s upper back. The position doesn’t leave Keith a lot of leverage, but he doesn’t need it, would only need to position himself just so and he knows he could be coming in minutes. A hand inches toward Keith’s dick, and Keith has barely the presence of mind to bat Lance away. He has to keep a tight hold of his generally less-than-stellar self-control if he wants to be able to finally, _finally_ , see what Lance looks like falling apart on his cock.

Instead, he rides out the waves of Lance’s movements, revels in Lance’s punched-out noises as he fucks up into Keith and then falls back down onto the bedspread and the plug fucks up into _him_ and—

—And in what feels like seconds, Lance is kicking up jerkily against him, seizing around him, and Keith can feel the hot rush of come as Lance spills inside.

Limply, Lance falls back to the bed with an overwhelmed sigh. After a moment, Keith slowly, almost performatively lifts off his dick, knowing that the visual of Lance’s come leaking out of his sloppy hole will be more than enough to keep Lance interested.

Sure enough, he hears a weak, “Oh my fuck, dude.” Lance’s fingers slip against his thigh, up to the mess of his rim. When he glances over his shoulder, Lance looks utterly broken behind him, almost spread-eagle on the bed, his knuckles laced with stringy semen that he’s studying with dull wonder.

Keith raises an eyebrow as he swings off him. “You all right?”

“That was so hot,” Lance mumbles in return. His bleary eyes meet Keith’s. “This is so hot.”

Smirking, Keith stretches out along Lance’s side. The air in the bedroom is cold against his heated skin, and shivers keep crawling up and down his spine, pent-up energy from lack of orgasm. But for now he can let Lance wipe off his fingers with the tissues by his bedside while he catches his breath, at least a little. It’ll make it better in the long run, Keith tells himself, and he wants to make this _the best_.

Lance, however, seems to have no such qualms. “So when ya gonna fuck me?” he asks, grinning lopsidedly, only one eye open.

Keith laughs. He can’t stop himself from brushing a knuckle over the smiling apple of Lance’s cheek, ghosting over his mark. To his surprise, it’s warm to the touch, warmer even than the surrounding skin. It seems to flicker as Keith passes over it. If it weren’t nearly fully dark in the bedroom, Keith thinks he would have mistaken it for a trick of the light.

“Your mark,” he murmurs.

“Huh?” Lance’s face grows instantly alert, his own hand coming up to brush his cheekbone. The shine snuffs out as soon as he prods it.

“It was glowing,” Keith says. “I think. Just a little.”

“O-oh,” Lance stammers. His eyes skitter bashfully away from Keith’s, and the air in the room shifts, slightly but unmistakably, though Keith doesn’t know what it shifts to.

“What? What is it?” Keith frowns, remembering the last time Lance’s marks glowed. His stomach twists. “Are… are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Lance shakes his head, turning back to Keith. He puts his own hand to Keith’s cheek, rubbing a thumb over Keith’s scar. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Not at all.” Keith must not look particularly convinced, because Lance gives a small, reassuring smile. “Look, did I say ‘quiznak’ even once? No. Because I was using English curse words, because you were rocking my fucking world, okay?”

Keith snorts, allowing himself to be convinced. If nothing else, the physical evidence of Lance’s pleasure is still slowly dripping out of him. But that doesn’t explain the glowing.

“So then… why…?”

His fingertips brush against them again, and he thinks he sees another little glimmer of light before it flickers out once more. Lance seems aware of it this time, or else the entire topic has him fidgeting shyly.

“Um…” he starts. “It’s… I…” He stops himself, taking a deep breath before saying in a rush: “Okay, so I talked to my therapist about it, and of course she’s not an expert on Altean markings or anything, but she had me talk myself through every time I’ve noticed it, and I think it’s when I’m… feeling something really strongly?” 

Now that he can, the urge to kiss Lance is almost overwhelming. Keith tries to be a good listener, but what’s he supposed to do when Lance says something like that?

“Mmph, mm, Keith, I wasn’t done explaining…” Lance murmurs against his mouth, half-laughing. He guides Keith back with the hand on his cheek, his eyes shining with affection as he searches Keith’s gaze. “You liked that, huh?”

Petulantly, Keith scowls. “What, am I supposed to _not_ like it?”

Lance’s look is so achingly fond that Keith wants to cover his face again, like at the club. “Ah,” he sighs, “I’m gonna have to get used to kissing you like _this_ , I can tell already.”

“Shut up,” Keith mutters, heat rising in his face.

Laughing, Lance swoops in to kiss him again, briefly, joyfully, and Keith privately agrees with him: he, too, will have to get used to kissing Lance like this, with delight, with devotion.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles when Lance pulls away again. “Go on, then. What else did you figure out?”

“Ah, right.” His eyes briefly meet Keith’s and then scoot bashfully away. He clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. Strong feelings. Like, anything. Anger… um, good… stuff.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I can’t think! God, I can’t explain it well right now, I’m too— _agh!_ ” 

He buries his face in Keith’s neck, kissing his skin so loud and wet that Keith has to shove him away, laughing.

“Anyway,” Lance says when he falls back against the pillow, “that’s probably why they hadn’t glowed for a really long time before we started… doing whatever dumb shit we were doing. Because I was still so depressed over Allura, everything kind of felt like shades of gray.”

“The dried-up sponge,” Keith says.

“Not so dried up anymore,” Lance says back. “Thanks to you.”

Keith wants to squirm at the rush of euphoric warmth that floods through him. He hides his face by looking down to where Lance’s fingers are brushing over the hairs of his forearm, draped over Lance’s chest. “Me?”

Lance is still looking at him, he can tell. “Yeah, man. All that time we spent together, just being close, I was…”

He trails off, but Keith can fill in the blanks.

_I was falling in love with you._

The words don’t need to be said. Not yet, anyway. And Lance doesn’t say them. But when he speaks again, his voice is nevertheless low, gentle: “Well, I think we’re on the same page about that. Right?”

Wordlessly, Keith lifts his face to Lance’s. Lance’s gaze is crystalline, shiny and precious like sapphires, like droplets of ocean spray catching the sunlight. Keith knows the waves lapping at his ankles pulled him in with the tide long ago.

So he captures Lance’s lips with his, surging against him gently, far more gently than he ever has. Lance meets him just as tenderly, his palm cupping his scarred cheek the way it did years ago, on the porch of the farmhouse.

 _“Aw, you think I’m pretty, Keith?”_ he’d said. _“I think you’re pretty, too, dude.”_

And Keith had lied. Keith said, _“I don’t care.”_

 _I do care,_ Keith tells him now, as he sucks his lower lip between his.

 _I’m glad you think I’m pretty,_ Keith tells him as he trails kisses down Lance’s jaw.

 _I think you’re gorgeous, Lance,_ Keith tells him as he closes his mouth over a taut nipple and feels Lance shiver beautifully beneath him.

They’re on the same page.

Keith maintains his loving onslaught as Lance begins increasingly to respond. He lets out a giggle as Keith’s hair brushes his side, goosebumps rising underneath Keith’s lips, and squirms ticklishly beneath his hands, so Keith makes his kisses harder, sloppier, wetter and open-mouthed, and Lance’s giggles turn to overstimulated moans. Keith is back to fully hard by the time he reaches Lance’s cock, beginning to twitch with renewed interest.

Keith bypasses it for now, nipping instead at the taut tendons of Lance’s delicious thighs. He notices how the skin down there is hairless, nearly perfectly smooth against his lips. He flicks his eyes up to Lance, who is watching him raptly.

“You really were planning something tonight, weren’t you?” he asks teasingly, running his tongue over the soft skin.

To his credit, Lance doesn’t even blush. He smiles a little wearily, but his eyes are glittering with growing excitement. “Told you, it’s been a while. And I’ve been jerking off to the idea of you fucking me for what feels like years now.”

That piques Keith’s interest. He rests his head on Lance’s thigh, allowing his fingertips to play around the base of the plug, relishing the stretch of Lance’s body around it. “Mm, does it _feel_ like years,” he hums, musing, “or has it literally been years?”

At that, color rushes to Lance’s cheeks. “Are you asking if I ever masturbated to you _during the war_ , Keith?” he demands, sounding scandalized.

“I might be asking that,” Keith replies noncommittally. His fingers continue to prod absentmindedly at Lance’s hole, slicking through the leftover lube.

“Oh, well, in that case…” Lance flaps a hand, his eyes rolling away. “I _might_ have done it. Why, did you— _nngg..._ ” His teasing, self-satisfied smile drops into a wordless moan when Keith begins to tug the plug out of him. “ _Hahh_ , be careful…” 

“Of course,” Keith says, dropping a kiss on the swell of Lance’s butt cheek, peeking out from under his thigh where it’s pressed against the covers, as he pulls the toy free.

The thickest part of the plug turns out not to be quite as thick as Keith assumed; he could easily have pulled it through accidentally. The toy itself is simple, rippled, clearly dick-shaped, with a little upward tilt to the head at the right length to hit exactly where it needs to. Keith examines it with amusement, holding it up for Lance to see.

“No wonder this was doing so much for you earlier,” he says wryly.

Lance nods, a little breathless. “Reviews said you could feel it going about your day-to-day, and the patrons of the online sex store did not lie.”

Keith hums, studying it in his hands. He sets the plug on the bedside table as he reaches for the bottle of lube and gives it another pump, coating his fingers. “So you felt it, Lance?” he purrs. “When we were at the club?”

After a moment, Lance clenches his eyes shut and then nods quickly. “Mm-hmm...” he confesses.

“Mm, I bet it was hard to be out and about with this inside you,” Keith goes on. “And you wondering if you were finally gonna get fucked tonight.”

Still sheepish, Lance nods again. When he opens his eyes, there’s a glint of amusement in them. “Felt like I had a vibrator in, with all that bass.”

Keith laughs, unable to help himself from kissing Lance at the base of his cock, nosing at his balls, which are impressively smooth. It drives home yet again just how badly Lance wants Keith to fuck him, turning the amusement at Lance’s words into smoldering desire.

“You feel empty now, _kitten_?” Keith asks with a smirk, running his fingers around Lance’s loose hole. He watches as it twitches, wants so badly to sink into it already; he’s more keyed up than perhaps he’s ever been. But right now Lance needs him to go slowly, and he doesn’t want to overwhelm him.

Not _too_ much, anyway.

Humming in confirmation, Lance flexes his thighs and brings one up to his chest, giving Keith easier access. “Yeah, want you inside me,” he replies, a whining tone in his voice that is borderline pornographic in the best possible way. His eyes are dark and gleaming when he asks, “How do you want me?”

“How do _you_ want _me_?” Keith answers, dipping in two fingers briefly, just to hear Lance suck in a breath, see how his body goes still with anticipation.

“Like this,” Lance decides, after a moment. “On top of me. I wanna kiss you.”

Heat floods into Keith’s face. He makes himself focus on the way Lance’s hole is hugging his knuckles. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t wanna be able to forget that it’s you.”

Burning, Keith pushes his face into Lance’s abdomen so that he won’t see it. Lustful warmth is spreading through his body and for once his dick is not the source of it. It feels like his heart is getting turned on, what the fuck.

“I… I want that, too,” Keith mumbles into Lance’s skin, followed by a kiss. “You’re… nice. To look at, I mean.”

Lance chuckles. “I don’t think I know what that translates to in human English,” he teases. “Could you enlighten me?”

Keith huffs. Beneath him, Lance’s stomach jumps with ill-concealed laughter. “It means I’ll fuck you missionary like a Puritan if you really want me to,” he retorts.

Now laughter bursts from Lance. A hand lands on Keith’s head, slides down to brush hair from his forehead. “You’re such a trial, my dear,” he says fondly.

The speed with which Lance’s words make heat flood Keith’s face forces him to suck in a breath. His mouth is open to respond before he’s even noticed it. “Right, _I’m_ the trial, says the one who imposed this completely unnecessary embargo on us fucking and now wants me to do him in literally the sappiest possible position for his first time taking my dick.”

The smile on Lance’s face doesn’t falter. His hand cups Keith’s face, and Keith tries to bat it away halfheartedly before allowing it to land there. “Your beauty is matched only by your stupidity,” Lance pronounces with gravitas.

Keith gives him a flat look, but at least his heart has stopped pounding in his ears. He can work like this.

So he reaches for the lube once more. As he does so, his gaze lands on the plug, sitting upright beside the pump bottle. His eyes flick to it a few times, an idea taking shape. When he returns to kneel between Lance’s thighs, he has a pool of lube in one hand and the plug in the other.

Lance cocks an eyebrow. “Uhh, I think we’re pretty much done with that, buckaroo.”

Keith drops his lube hand to his dick, spreading a good amount of it over himself, and giving himself a few pumps to get himself back up to full hardness. Then he slathers the excess over the plug. Lance is still watching him warily, clearly expecting yet another postponement from Keith.

“You might be done with it,” Keith says, “but I’m not.” 

And, rising onto his knees, he reaches back to press the plug inside himself.

It slips in easily. His hole is already wet and loose from riding Lance, and it sucks the toy in. As he breathes out at the sensation, he’s surprised to hear a twin moan from Lance. He lifts his head to watch Lance’s thunderstruck expression through heavily lidded eyes, and _god_ , he fucking lives for that fucked-out awe, that lustful incredulity. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing it.

Finally, the toy is fully seated within him, and Keith, trying to ignore the insistent press of the head against his prostate, shifts until Lance’s thighs are draped over his knees and forearms.

“What the fuck, dude,” Lance murmurs, sliding his hands admiringly over Keith’s abdomen.

Keith smirks, reaching down to slide his palm over his eager, straining cock. “You think you were gonna get to have all the fun?” he asks, a little breathless from the sensation of the toy. It’s not like it’s weird to have something inside him (Lance just was, after all) but the ergonomics of the thing mean that it’s reminding him very urgently that—oh yeah—he _still_ hasn’t come yet. 

He really just made this exponentially more difficult for himself, didn’t he?

Swallowing hard, he knees up closer to Lance, draping Lance’s legs up his torso and over his shoulders. The toy presses lightly inside him, moving just enough to have him biting his lip as he lines up. The blunt head of his dick catches Lance’s rim, gripped in his hand as he guides it. 

“Keith,” Lance says suddenly. “Wait.”

He freezes. Looks up. 

Lance is watching him, holding out a hand. His expression is cracked open, raw and vulnerable, and Keith aches almost painfully to look at it. he doesn’t know if anyone has ever looked at him like that. 

He knows that _he_ has, though. Has the photographic evidence.

He knows that he will again.

“What is it?” he asks gently, although with the way Lance is looking at him, he thinks he knows.

“I—” Lance catches himself, biting his tongue between his front teeth. “There’s something I want to say to you.”

Keith goes so still that he barely breathes. His fist is still gripping his dick, still pressed against the hot, smooth skin of Lance’s inner thigh. He swallows hard and tries to move away, but Lance’s legs tense around him, holding him there. “...Yeah?” he says finally.

Lance swallows, too. He opens his mouth and then closes it, and his eyes slide away from Keith’s. “I want to tell you, but,” he says, chewing his soft, kiss-swollen lip, “...it’s too soon to say it.”

Keith’s heart leaps into his throat.

“And I’ve… said it too soon before,” Lance goes on, his brows furrowing as he stares at the wall, avoiding Keith’s gaze. “And I regretted it. And I don’t want to do that with you.”

Keith’s heart pulses, choking the breath from him.

Lance’s blue, blue eyes flick back to Keith’s. “It’s too soon, right?” he says quietly.

And—

And...

And, “Yeah,” Keith says. 

Because they have time, because this matters too much to fuck up. Because he remembers what Lance said to him on the Blade ship. Because if he and Lance don’t work out, he feels like that might be _it_ for him, too. 

So, “Yeah,” Keith lies. “It is.”

Lance looks at him. He doesn’t appear upset by Keith agreeing with him. If anything, he seems relieved, a smile slowly lifting the corners of his kiss-bitten mouth. Still, “I do, though,” he tells him, his marks flickering when their eyes meet. “I feel it.”

Keith swallows around the wad of emotion in his throat. All he can do is nod. 

“Is that you saying you do, too?” Lance asks, teasing. “Some things don’t need to be said?”

Keith feels the heat creeping up into his face again. He wants to keep his eyes closed, maybe leave the room to gather himself, but Lance’s thighs are surrounding him, and nothing could drag him away.

“Some things need to be said when we’re not both naked and high on sex,” is what he settles on.

“Look at you, Mr. Self-Control,” Lance says, knocking his foot against Keith’s temple playfully. “Who are you and what have you done with Keith?”

“Shut up…” The blush is fully in his face now; he can feel it burning at his ears as he cuts his eyes away, Lance chuckling beneath him. “Can I put my dick in you now or what?”

Lance bursts into laughter. He flings his head to the side, forearm covering his smile, his eyes crinkling. “Oh my god, dude,” he giggles. “I take back what I said. You’re definitely Keith.” 

Keith winces. “Sor—”

“Sh, it’s fine. It was hilarious.” Smiling, Lance runs a hand down Keith’s forearm reassuringly before he lies back against the pillow, shifting his hips up higher against Keith’s thighs. “Go on, then,” he says, grinning. “Stick it in me.”

Shaking his head, Keith takes his cock in hand once more, giving it a few pumps to plump it up again. “And with those eloquent words…” he murmurs, lining himself up and pressing forward.

The smiles drop from both of their faces almost instantly when Keith enters Lance. Keith’s head bows, his hair falling in his face as Lance keens and arches beneath him.

“Ohooo, fuck,” Lance breathes, flinging an arm up to grip at the pillow under him. “Oh my _god_ , it’s been a long time…”

And fuck, it’s been a long time for Keith, too. A long time since he felt heat like this gripping his cock. Not to mention that it’s never been— he’s never felt— 

Shit. He might need to catch his breath already. Thank god _his_ cheeks don’t light up like a Christmas tree when he feels something strongly.

Through gritted teeth, Keith promises, “I’ll go slow.” He’s not sure if he says it for Lance or for himself.

Slowly, he rocks down again, eyes closed. All of his focus is on making the slide easy, his movements liquid, anything he can do to get Lance to melt beneath him. He holds onto Lance’s thighs, keeping them steady as he rolls forward and back, forward and back, more of him sinking into the tight clutch of Lance’s body with every slow thrust, every strained moan, until Lance’s ass is pressed against his hips and he’s buried fully inside him.

He opens his eyes and looks up, sweat already beading on his brow.

Lance’s marks are blue fire.

They blaze on his skin, twin beacons of sky, of ocean, of cerulean flame. They draw Keith in, the tide tugging him down as Lance’s thighs part, until Keith’s elbows land on either side of his chest and their faces are inches apart. Up close, the light is nearly blinding; Keith has to half-lid his eyes against it.

“Wow,” Keith breathes against Lance’s mouth.

Lance chuckles a little and nods wordlessly. His fingers twine through Keith’s hair, keeping him close. 

“So what are you feeling right now?” Keith whispers. His voice is hushed. Just for them.

Lance only smiles. “Good,” is all he says, lips brushing Keith’s. “So good, Keith.”

When Keith begins to move again, they’re kissing. Keith holds Lance’s face in one hand, the other bracing himself against the bed, while Lance’s thighs grip his waist tightly, and Lance’s arms around his neck are even tighter. Keith is so wound up that he’s almost immediately at the edge, only holds on because Lance starts to whine and gasp into his mouth, his marks stuttering and flickering like fireworks behind Keith’s eyelids. To his shock, Lance stiffens and spasms against him, _around_ him, coming untouched between their bellies, and that’s it, that’s _it_ , all of it—the clench of Lance’s hole against his cock, the deep nudging pleasure of Lance’s plug against his prostate, the vibrant heat of Lance’s teeth against his tongue—and Keith can’t help but feel like his _brain_ is a firework, fizzing and screaming into the night sky and then exploding into blue-red-purple.

They still, mouths still against each other but barely kissing, only moving languidly, sporadically. Lance’s marks have calmed to shimmer mutedly against the tip of Keith’s nose when he nuzzles at them. When Lance hums against him, his whole body feels warm, lustrous with bliss, floating on something more ambrosial than he’s ever drunk before.

“Mm,” Keith murmurs, “I love you.”

And...

And—

Oh shit, wait—

He jerks back, his wide eyes meeting Lance’s in shock.

They stare at each other for a moment: Lance flabbergasted, Keith slightly horrified. 

Then Lance bursts into giggles, falling onto his back and flopping his arm across the bed. “Oh my _god_ , dude.”

“What,” Keith asks flatly.

That sets off another peal of giggles. “Oh my _god, dude!_ ”

 _“What?”_ Keith allows his tone to go sharp, though he knows very well what. Sure enough, the giggles crescendo yet again.

Lance’s head whips back over, landing with a little _thump_ against the pillow beside Keith’s. “After all that?” he cries. “After everything I said about it being too soon, and not wanting to make the same mistake again…?”

Keith hunches his shoulders up. “Well…!” he protests. “You basically said it, anyway! And I basically said it. And we both knew what we both basically said, so…!”

Lance lets out a little groan, dragging a hand down his face, but his smile is blazing, up close. Before Keith’s eyes, his marks flicker back to life and begin to glow, brighter, brighter, until they’re nearly blinding yet again, the warm blue illuminating the space between them.

“Classic Keith,” Lance sighs. “Always choosing the hard way.”

Keith pretends to mean it when he rolls his eyes. “And what about you?” he prompts. “Are you gonna—?”

“Oh, I love you, too,” Lance interrupts him, grinning cheekily. He hauls him closer, grinning against Keith’s lips, which are fighting a smile. “Yep. That became _abundantly_ clear to me somewhere around the second chorus of ‘I Like Lance’.”

Keith groans, but Lance smiles against him, and so Keith allows the smile to bloom on his own face. Once more, he floats. Not the way he did after Shiro’s birthday, threatening to escape into the ether, but easily, on the swell of Lance’s laughter, his closeness, his warmth, his— his everything.

“I still can’t believe you had that plug in the whole time,” he grumbles, stamping a kiss on the side of Lance’s neck as he slowly pulls out and falls to Lance’s side. He molds himself against him, Lance’s arm around his shoulders, before something even more interesting flashes through his mind. “Wait, scratch that—I can’t believe you came untouched!”

Palm skating over his upper back, Lance grins. His marks dull to a pleasant glow. “Ah, yeah,” he says, slightly demure. “Like I said, I _really_ liked it when Allura and I tried it.”

“You coulda told me you could do that,” Keith says. “I wouldn’t have waited so long to top.”

“Well, I didn’t want to get either of our hopes up,” Lance says with a shrug. “It had been a while, I didn’t want to put pressure on you _or_ me. And I already came once, I’ve never done it multiple times—”

“Still coulda told me,” Keith mutters, reaching down to run his fingers through the mess on Lance’s stomach. It’s just a little, not nearly as much as he came the first time, but still. _Untouched_. Damn. Keith already wants another go.

When he looks up again, Lance is smirking. “You have a little bit of a kink, kitten?”

The strength of his blush takes him by surprise. Okay, so ‘kitten’ is really growing on him. “Just realizing how much more I’m gonna have to top,” he replies. Which reminds him… 

He reaches back to where the plug is still seated within him and slowly slides it out, tingles shooting up his spine as he does. “Can’t believe I didn’t _actually_ have to do that stupid song,” he says, rolling over to place the plug on the bedside table.

“Aww, but I loved it,” Lance whines, tugging Keith back and wrapping him up in his arms instantly. “I can’t believe you did that for me. I felt like I was in a romcom.”

Keith weighs this. “That is… the worst thing you’ve ever told me.”

Lance squawks. “You’re just saying that because you have no soul! Doesn’t even cry at _Fox and the Hound_ , what kind of dog owner—”

And as Lance grumbles to himself about Keith’s lack of tears at movies, all the while sliding fingertips over his side and lower back, pressing intermittent kisses to his mouth or temple, Keith decides to keep to himself, at least for now, the _other_ potential strategy he had for making a fool of himself. See, there _might_ be a true story about a dog in Japan who waited for years at a train station for his owner to come back, not realizing the owner had passed away; and it _might_ have been made into a movie; and Keith _might_ have teared up just thinking about the dog and immediately had to go hug Kosmo.

And oh yeah—he decided to just stick with Kosmo. It seemed easiest. Most people already call him that anyway.

So there’s a lot of stuff still to tell Lance. And almost certainly there’s a lot of stuff for Lance still to tell Keith. But it can wait. Keith will save it. Something’s telling him to hold back, but not because it’s Lance and not because Lance could make fun of him, though he most certainly will. 

It’s because they have all the time in the world to be with each other. To be themselves.

Typical Lance. Classic Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~looks like we maaade iiiit~
> 
> thanks to everyone who read and commented and kudos'd! i'm so glad y'all took a chance on and liked this semi-niche fic. i hope you liked it all the way through!
> 
> thanks especially to laser for talking through almost every idea with me, this fic is dedicated to him. and many, many thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs) for the beta read throughout it all!
> 
> one final thing i forgot to note after the last chapter re: flowers. i know most klance fics have sunflowers but i chose marigolds for this one not only because i personally like them more but because of some of their meanings. supposedly victorians saw them as a symbol of grief, but in the middle ages sometimes people carried them as love charms to attract someone new. i thought both of these meanings were appropriate for klance in this story. <3
> 
> i’m [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter. thank you all!


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